Unable Are the Loved to Die
by QueenOfTheDreamers87
Summary: 1975. Voldemort has been in power for years. He and Bellatrix have a strongly-established mental link. They have Horcruxes. And now that Voldemort knows the Elder Wand is his, only one power stands between him and true invincibility. Part V and conclusion of the Troublemaker Series. Complete. Bellamort.
1. Chapter 1

Unable are the Loved to die  
For Love is Immortality,  
Nay, it is Deity—

Unable they that love—to die  
For Love reforms Vitality  
Into Divinity.

\- Emily Dickinson

* * *

 _Archer's Edge_

 _21 September 1975_

Bellatrix screamed. It was all she could do, given the fact that her husband's face had been buried between her legs for the last fifteen minutes. She screamed because she'd come again, for the third time in a half hour, and her thighs trembled as Lord Voldemort squeezed them. Bellatrix arched her back up and squeezed at the sheets and exclaimed,

"No more! Please, I can't..."

"Oh, yes, you can." Voldemort flashed her a wicked smirk as he finally raised his head. Bellatrix shivered at the sight of him; his lips were pearlescent from her fluids, and his sharp cheekbones were flushed pink. He started to draw circles on her nub with his thumb as he stared up at her, and Bellatrix asked breathlessly,

"My Lord, don't you... don't you want to...?"

"Already did," Voldemort said simply, tipping his head and keeping his thumb moving in slow, steady circles. "Blankets are easily cleaned with a quick spell or two, hmm? Besides, it's your birthday, not mine. Thankfully."

Bellatrix shuddered again as she realised he'd finished when he'd been using his mouth on her. Probably one of her own climaxes had driven him to his own; he'd been grinding his hips down onto the bed and groaning against her. Now, as he used his thumb and fingers on her and gave her a meaningful look, Bellatrix shook her head and helplessly whispered,

"People will be here in a half hour and I'm not even dressed."

"Then you'd best come quickly," Voldemort murmured, "so you have time to slap some lipstick on."

For some reason, that drove her over the edge, and Bellatrix breathed in the feel of his thumb moving on her one more time. Then everything snapped like a wire breaking, and she tipped her head back and whispered a wordless plea for help. Her body, weary and trembling from everything he'd done to her, clamped weakly around his fingers, and Bellatrix let herself fall back against the pillows. She dug her fists into her eye sockets and felt Voldemort pull his hand from her. She heard him whisper spells to clean up her body and his own, as well as the blankets he'd apparently soiled. She finally caught her breath and opened her eyes, watching Voldemort stalk over to the wardrobe and start pulling out pieces of his tuxedo robes.

"Thank you, My Lord," she said hoarsely, "even if the timing was cutting it a bit close."

He cocked up an eyebrow at her over his shoulder. They'd needed this, she knew. Over the last year or so, intimacy between them had nearly fizzled out entirely. There had been a minor revolt among the parents of newly-discovered Squibs, and the aftermath of that had been stressful for both of them. Bellatrix had spent two months in Ghana, chasing a dead-end lead about an Invisibility Cloak. The item, possessed by a witch in a small village, turned out to be nothing but a garment that caused feature Transfiguration. Even Nadia, whom Bellatrix had visited again in Croatia, had claimed she knew nothing of the other two Hallows' location. It had begun to feel as though the quest for the other Hallows, which had originally seemed exciting and urgent, was nothing at all.

It didn't help that Bellatrix's time in Britain had been alternately spent consoling her sister between what felt like neverending miscarriages, investigating the increasingly concerning behaviour of her cousin Sirius, and training Aurors in Unforgivable work. Voldemort's time had been spent making appearances at Ministry departments, visiting with foreign dignitaries, and trying to re-establish relations with MACUSA. That last bit had only been because Bellatrix's father had convinced Voldemort that it was financially necessary to have some semblance of ties to America, but Bellatrix couldn't be in the meetings, given what had happened during her last visit to the States.

As they'd each grown more busy and their respective stress levels had skyrocketed, they'd begun to see one another almost entirely in passing. Occasional meals together, a quick kiss goodnight, a mumbled good morning... for the past two months or so, that had been all they'd had. Until today, at least. Today Voldemort had informed Bellatrix that he was going to make her come until she couldn't do it anymore. And he had gone to the trouble of planning a birthday party that began in less than a half hour.

With the realisation of the time crunch, Bellatrix heaved herself out of the bed and moved quickly to the wardrobe. Voldemort stepped aside as he buttoned his black waistcoat, watching as she pulled out a floor-length black raw silk gown.

"You still have that thing, then?" Voldemort asked, and Bellatrix gave him a questioning look. He brought his bow tie up around his collar and noted, "That's the gown you wore to your parents' Christmas party, the day I first kissed you."

Bellatrix stared at the gown self-consciously and asked, "Should I wear something else? Something newer?"

"No," he said, his voice quite firm. "No, I very much like how it looks on you."

Bellatrix pulled on smooth knickers, forgoing a bra thanks to the gown's plunging neckline. She slithered into the gown and turned around, and Voldemort wordlessly did up the zip. Then he bent to touch his lips to her neck, pushing her curls away as he whispered into her ear,

"I've missed you, little thing."

"I've been here the whole time," Bellatrix noted, though of course that wasn't true. She'd been in Croatia, in Ghana, at Malfoy Manor and her parents' house. She sighed and turned round, studying his eyes as she nodded and amended her words. "I've missed you, too, My Lord."

He cupped her face in his hands and said, "I think we need to look closer to home. I think they're here in Britain."

She turned up half her mouth and asked, "Are you just saying that so I won't leave again?"

"No," he said, and she could feel through his mind that he was being honest. He tucked her hair behind her ear and said, "Our research has indicated that this myth has existed exclusively in Britain, and for almost a millennium. Why would any of the Hallows be in a village in Ghana?"

"I didn't have anything else to go off of, My Lord," Bellatrix shrugged. "I still don't."

"You have eyes, and a brain," Voldemort reminded her. "We're going to think through our next step a bit more. I won't lose a scrap of my link with you over this, you understand?"

Bellatrix nodded. Voldemort's throat bobbed as he pulled on his tuxedo jacket with its one-shouldered cape, and he murmured to Bellatrix,

"Wear the red lipstick if you want, but keep your curls down, will you?"

Bellatrix couldn't help but smile a little at that. Even after all they'd been through, after seven years of chaos and tumult and wild success, he still cared about her hair being down. She slipped on her black pumps and walked into the bathroom, opening the cupboard beside the sink and taking out her cosmetics bag. She spritzed herself with rose perfume, lined her eyes with inky black wings, and carefully applied scarlet lipstick. She used a quick spell she'd perfected as a third-year Slytherin, one that would keep her makeup in place all night. She pulled on her serpent necklace and put the diamond stud earrings in that Voldemort had given her the previous Valentine's Day. He'd made them himself out of bits of coal, a feat Bellatrix had found both amusing and impressive.

He stood then in the threshold of the bathroom, looking extraordinarily handsome for a man who was inching ever closer to fifty. Bellatrix herself felt a bit strange turning twenty-four; it seemed like a profoundly adult age to turn. But she stared at her reflection in the mirror, and she saw a seventeen-year-old. She put her lips into a line, remembering what they'd done in Spain, and she glanced back at Voldemort's reflection as she asked,

"When do you think they'll start to notice?"

"Some of them already have," Voldemort told her. "But they're afraid to do too much wondering. It helps keep them in line, you know. The fact that they know I can look into their heads. In any case, it doesn't matter. Your face won't be changing. What of it?"

Bellatrix frowned and complained, "I don't look twenty-four. Next year I won't look twenty-five. I'll never look thirty, or forty, or..."

"Fifty. No, you won't. But it doesn't matter," Voldemort said firmly. He stepped up behind her and reminded her, "They're all trickling in downstairs. Shall we go celebrate with them?"

Bellatrix nodded, staring at his stern reflection and remembering the look of his lips shining from her womanhood. She felt a little tremble of want again, and he smirked as he kissed the back of her head.

"Later, little thing," he whispered. "You can have as much as you want later."

* * *

"It has been some measurable time since Britain has seen a witch like Bellatrix Black," Voldemort declared. He stared out at those who had gathered, the hundred or so who were lucky enough to be considered 'inner circle.' He cleared his throat and continued, "Indeed, I would venture to suppose that wizarding Britain has never actually seen a witch anything like my wife. Clever in politics, a brilliant diplomat and a sharp thinker. More than gifted in combat. I confess that I find her beautiful to behold, and I won't begrudge any of you thinking the same of her."

The crowd laughed, just a little nervously, and Bellatrix smiled crookedly from where she stood with a glass of Champagne. Voldemort raised his own glass and stared right at Bellatrix as he said,

"The happiest of birthdays to you, my wondrous Lady. Here's a many more. More than you can count. To The Lady!"

"To The Lady!" The crowd raised their glasses and cheered Bellatrix in unison, and then everyone took sips of their Champagne. The enchanted string ensemble in the corner began to play, and everyone broke into little groups and began to chat. Bellatrix gamely soldiered through a receiving line, and Voldemort stood back and watched as she plastered a fresh smile on for each well-wisher.

"Aunt Walburga. How good of you to come," Bellatrix grinned. Walburga Black frowned deeply and admitted,

"Sirius wouldn't come, My Lady. I do apologise."

Suddenly Voldemort felt Bellatrix summoning him over in her mind, and he walked quickly to stand beside her. Walburga Black dipped into a little curtsy, and Voldemort asked crisply,

"Madam Black. Where is young Sirius? I know Headmistress Carrow gave both your sons leave to leave Hogwarts for the party."

Walburga hesitated. "Regulus came, My Lord. Sirius sent an owl and said... erm... he said he didn't want to come. Of course, I could not go to Hogwarts myself to retrieve him, so..."

"Mmm-hmm." Voldemort crossed his arms over his chest and said sharply, "I'll be having Headmistress Carrow keep a closer eye on him. His intransigence is not your fault, Madam Black, but you will allow me to ensure the boy is not harbouring dissident sentiments."

"Of course, Master. Happy birthday, My Lady." Walburga Black skulked off with her husband Orion. The next group of guests, a blond trio, stepped up to greet Bellatrix. Voldemort didn't recognise them, but he assumed Bellatrix had had a good reason for inviting the guests she had. She gave Voldemort a little smile and said,

"My Lord. This is Rhona Lovegood, who works in the Department of International Magical Cooperation. Her husband, Kieran, who heads up the Obliviator Squad. This is their son, Xenophilius; he was a Ravenclaw in Narcissa's year."

"My Lord." Rhona Lovegood dipped into a rather awkward-looking curtsy, shoving her long, straight blonde hair from her eyes. Voldemort studied the witch's brightly-colored, patchwork robes with curiosity. Kieran Lovegood seemed a little more subdued, but his stony face seemed perfectly suited for work as an Obliviator. He and the boy, Xenophilius, bowed, and when Xenophilius stood, a golden trinket around his neck glittered.

Suddenly Voldemort found himself frozen. He stared at the boy's chest, gesturing toward the symbol he'd only seen one other place in person.

"What... erm... what sort of necklace is that?" Voldemort asked, struggling to stay calm. His mind flashed to the Gaunt family ring that he'd made into a Horcrux, the one he had hidden beneath the floorboards in the shack in Little Hangleton. The triangle with a circle within, a stick going straight up the middle. Bellatrix's eyes flew to Voldemort, and he knew she could see the ring, the way it matched the boy's necklace.

"Oh, this." Xenophilius Lovegood held up his necklace and proudly declared, "This is the symbol of the Deathly Hallows, My Lord."

"Just a silly story, as I've told you many times, Xeno," scolded the boy's father, but Rhona Lovegood shrugged and said,

"Difficult to say what's real and what isn't, eh? No harm in the boy believing -"

"We will not have this ridiculous argument here, in front of the Dark Lord and the Lady," hissed Kieran Lovegood. Voldemort took a shaking breath and asked Xenophilius with feigned lightness,

"You have interest in the Tales of Beedle the Bard, do you?"

"Some mistake it for the mark of Gellert Grindelwald," Xenophilius said in a misty voice, pressing his fingers to his pendant, "but it's represented the Tale of the Three Brothers for a very long time. If Grindelwald used it, it's because he knew -"

"That is more than enough, Xeno," barked Kieran Lovegood. He shot his son a withering glare and hissed through his teeth, "Be silent before the Dark Lord is convinced you're entirely mad."

"Kieran..." Rhona Lovegood shook her head at her husband and then gave Voldemort and Bellatrix an apologetic little smile. "These boys. All they ever do is argue. We don't want to keep you; others are waiting. Happy birthday, My Lady."

She dragged her husband's elbow, and as their son walked after them, Voldemort said sharply,

"Xenophilius."

The blonde boy turned round, a curious look in his strange eyes, and Voldemort asked him,

"You've left school; what do you do for a living?"

"I work in the cauldron shop on Diagon Alley," Xenophilius said. He didn't use his honorifics the way the others did; his sentences were missing the obligatory _My Lord_ at the end. But Voldemort sensed no malice in the omission. He narrowed his eyes at Xenophilius and said to Bellatrix,

"We could find him clerical work somewhere at the Ministry, surely?"

"Of course, My Lord," Bellatrix said, noting quickly. "Mr Lovegood, go to work with your mother tomorrow; I'll meet you in her office to discuss your future."

Xenophilius looked very confused but nodded. "Erm... all right. Thank you."

He turned to walk away, and Voldemort seized Bellatrix's hand and pulled her away.

"There were others lined up to -"

"They'll have to wait," Voldemort snapped. He met Bellatrix's eyes, his heart racing alongside hers as he whispered, "The ring. That symbol was on the ring."

"You think that ugly black stone is..." Bellatrix trailed off, glancing around to ensure no one else was listening. She met Voldemort's eyes again and shook her head fiercely. "It seems far too strong a coincidence."

"Grindelwald had the wand before Dumbledore. Then he used the symbol," Voldemort hissed. "He knew. And the ring... I'm the Heir of Slytherin; my mother's family is ancient. That ring is all the glory they had left. That's no coincidence."

Bellatrix sounded breathless as she asked, "So what are we meant to do tomorrow with Xenophilius Lovegood?"

"I want to know why that boy is so interested in the Hallows," Voldemort said. "I want to know who told them they were real. How he learnt that Grindelwald used the symbol. And then... we're going to take a field trip to Little Hangleton."

Bellatrix nodded, and he could feel an odd mix of excitement and confusion in her head. Voldemort brushed his fingers over her curls, feeling too energised to help himself as he bent down and touched his lips to hers.

"Go say hello to those people waiting for you, Bellatrix. Happy birthday."

Bellatrix's lips curled up. "Thank you, My Lord."

* * *

 _Ministry of Magic Headquarters, London_

 _22 September 1975_

"Mr Lovegood. Thank you kindly for meeting with me." Bellatrix pulled out a chair in the meeting room she'd reserved, and Xenophilius Lovegood hesitantly sat opposite her.

"You didn't ask me here to discuss a position at the Ministry," he suspected aloud, and Bellatrix sighed as she shook her head.

"No. I'm sure we can work something out for you, but that's not why we're here." She drummed her fingers on the wooden table between them, eyeing the odd pendant that sat against Lovegood's chest, and she said gently, "Why don't you start at the beginning? When did you first learn about that symbol?"

Xenophilius Lovegood put his fingers over the pendant in a protective way, as if he were afraid someone was going to march up to him and tear the necklace from his body. He finally cleared his throat and said,

"When I was a sixth-year Ravenclaw at Hogwarts, we had a transfer student from Durmstrang."

Bellatrix nodded. "Yes. The Alsip boy. I remember; his family brought him back to school in Britain once the Dark Lord's power had cemented."

Lovegood nodded and continued, "He and I became rather good friends, and one rainy day, we were sitting in the library discussing lore and tradition at Durmstrang. He drew a symbol for me - this symbol."

He gestured down to his chest, and Bellatrix frowned. "What did he say the symbol meant?"

"He said that there was always bickering among the students at Durmstrang. Some claimed it was a symbol used by Gellert Grindelwald prior to his fall, that he'd inscribed it at the school. Others insisted it was an old symbol used to illustrate a fairy tale, but Benji Alsip didn't know which story. I put it together in my head... the triangle was the Invisibility Cloak. The circle was the Resurrection Stone. And the line was the Elder Wand. I'd had Babbity Rabbity read to me enough times as a child to remember the Tale of the Three Brothers. To remember the Deathly Hallows."

Bellatrix shrugged. "So you had a pendant made with the symbol? Why was it significant to you?"

Lovegood chewed his lip hard for a moment and then finally admitted, "I saw the Dark Lord's wand before the death of Albus Dumbledore. And the wand he uses today? I saw it in the hand of Albus Dumbledore before his death. It was taken as a trophy. But if it were used as a trophy, it would be mounted above a mantle or hidden away in a glass case. Instead, the Dark Lord uses it."

"He prefers it," Bellatrix said sharply. "What of it?"

Lovegood gave her a look like she was rather daft, and he pointed out, "No wand works quite as well as the wand one is given as a child, hmm? Except, of course, for the Elder Wand. The Dark Lord seized it from Dumbledore, who, I believe, took it from Grindelwald during their legendary duel. And Grindelwald took it from someone else; I've no idea who. But he knew what he had."

Bellatrix blinked a few times and shook her head. "Who told you all of this?"

Xenophilius Lovegood looked downright offended, and he insisted, "I figured it out myself. We Ravenclaws are rather good at figuring. I had this pendant made once I realised what wand the Dark Lord is using. The Hallows are real. The story is true."

"And what does it mean to you if the story is true?" Bellatrix demanded, and Lovegood curled his lips up a little as he said,

"It means that anything can be true. Any myth, any legend that has been written off as mere fantasy. Anything is possible if the Hallows are real."

Bellatrix sighed. She could sense no real threat from Lovegood, and it wouldn't do to punish him for putting these pieces together himself. She folded her hands on the table and asked in a sharp tone,

"Which department would you prefer to work in, Mr Lovegood?"

"I'm fine at the cauldron shop," he insisted, "until I start my own newspaper."

Bellatrix scowled and shook her head. "Independent press is strictly prohibited; you know that. The only newspaper allowed is the Daily Prophet."

"Perhaps I could work there, then," Lovegood suggested lightly. Bellatrix narrowed her eyes at him but rose from her chair and promised him,

"I'll look into it and send you an owl on the matter. Where do you live?"

"Ottery St Catchpole," said Xenophilius Lovegood, still not rising from his chair. Bellatrix sniffed a little and nodded once.

"Good day, Mr Lovegood."

"Good day, Madam Black," he said, and Bellatrix shivered a little as she stepped out into the corridor.

* * *

 _Archer's Edge_

 _22 September 1975_

"It's in the ring. The symbol. It's there; it's embedded in the ring." Voldemort paced anxiously in his office as Bellatrix stood with her arms crossed over her chest. He paused and met her gaze, and he pointed out, "The Gaunt family had had it for centuries, they said. I couldn't figure why such a hideous ring would be the last treasured possession of a ruined family. Now I understand. It was so much more than a ring. It still is."

"It's also a Horcrux, My Lord," Bellatrix pointed out rather sharply. She sounded frustrated as she said, "I suppose I don't understand what the point is of gathering them together. Master of Death. What does that even mean? And if one is a Horcrux?"

Voldemort pursed his lips, his stomach sinking a bit as he admitted to Bellatrix, "I'd have to destroy the Horcrux first. Whatever was left of that black rock would be the Resurrection Stone."

"Wait. What do you mean?" Bellatrix stepped toward him and narrowed her eyes. "The Elder Wand is meant to be extremely powerful on its own, and it is. Are you suggesting that you think the Resurrection Stone is entirely useless whilst it exists as a Horcrux?"

"I cursed the ring," Voldemort said, licking his lip carefully. "I enchanted it so that anyone who put it on would suffer a grave and terrible curse, one that would kill them painfully."

Bellatrix looked confused. "Can't you just remove the curse?"

"Not all curses work like that," Voldemort pointed out. "This one is a particularly Dark spell I learnt in Poland. I spent time in Krakow during the early fifties and... in any case, I'd be apprehensive about physically handling it right now."

"But you said we were taking a field trip to Little Hangleton," Bellatrix pointed out, and Voldemort nodded.

"We are. I need to move it, at least. I have all sorts of spells on the Gaunt shack, but I feel compelled to put it somewhere else. Somewhere safer. At least until we have the Invisibility Cloak and I figure a way to undo the curse."

"That's quite a lot of what-ifs, My Lord," Bellatrix mumbled. Voldemort angrily pulled out his chair and sat at his desk, pressing his fingers against his forehead as he said quietly,

"I need to do some recording. I've been feeling achy and unwell."

"Do you need my help, My Lord?" Bellatrix asked, but Voldemort shook his head. He forced himself to raise his eyes to her, and he said,

"Thank you for meeting with Lovegood. Whether it seems like it or not, it is a giant leap forward in the process to know about the ring's significance. We are in no rush. You understand?"

"I understand," Bellatrix nodded. "We're in no rush."

She left then, and he listened to her boots clack up the winding stone stairs that led to the bedrooms. He cleared his throat and opened his desk drawer, pulling out the book she'd brought back from Croatia. He inked up a quill and opened the book, and he wrote neatly,

 _I have grown very weary of hearing my sister-in-law complain of her endless miscarriages, and I informed her husband of the ability to grant her proper fertility using the process I undertook in Spain._

He paused, letting the words sink into the page. He chewed his lip for a moment and then wrote,

 _When Lucius balked at the notion, I asked him whether he was a coward or whether he was sterile himself. He hesitated for too long, and so I cast a nonverbal hex upon him to render him hopelessly impotent for a few months._

That ink sank into the page, too, and Voldemort tapped his hand on the desk. He sighed heavily and wrote one last passage.

 _When I told Bellatrix about all this, she said she was just relieved there would be a reprieve in hearing about miscarriages. Whilst I feel no compunction or guilt about my actions, I suspect they qualify as 'wicked,' so I am entering them here._

He shut the book and put it away, and after a few moments with his eyes shut, his body felt a bit stronger. He knew, though, that only Bellatrix could ever truly take away the creak in his joints and the headaches. He made his way out of his office and up the staircase, considering to himself that he hadn't asked her to heal him with her magic in a very long while. When he came into the bedroom, she was getting ready for bed, standing in the bathroom in a flowing white nightgown and scrubbing at her teeth. She turned her eyes toward him and then spit out the paste in the sink, rinsing her mouth and dabbing at her lips with a little towel.

"Quidditch match tomorrow, if you're amenable," Voldemort reminded her, peeling off his clothes one piece at a time. "Puddlemere United and the Pride of Portree. We'll need to look entirely neutral during the match, of course; it's just a public appearance. You don't have to come."

"I want to come," Bellatrix said, and though he suspected she was lying, she smiled and said again. "I want to come and sit with you in the box."

"All right, then." Voldemort nodded and rolled his shoulders back, hesitating for a moment. Bellatrix sensed his unease, and she strode toward him and put her hands upon his bare shoulders. Just that touch felt so good that Voldemort made a little involuntary noise. Bellatrix seemed to know exactly what he wanted, what he needed of her, and she whispered,

"Why don't you lie on your back?"

He made his way silently to the bed and climbed beneath the covers, watching as Bellatrix climbed in beside him. She curled up against him, which was something she hadn't done in so long that Voldemort had almost forgotten the sensation. It felt magnificent to have her warm breath on his skin, to have her fingers ghosting over his shoulder and her leg snared around his.

"What hurts you?" Bellatrix murmured, and Voldemort was almost overwhelmed with love for her in that moment. He struggled to speak, but he finally managed to say,

"Knees. Shoulders. Bad headaches, always in the front."

"Hmmm." Bellatrix lay there for quite a while, just touching him and breathing slowly. In his mind, Voldemort could feel her reliving some of their more intimate moments. She was beneath him on the bed in Malfoy Manor, gasping with pleasure as he took her gently for the first time. She was tied up in this bed, squirming and moaning desperately. She was back in the townhouse in St Alban's Grove with him plundering her against the books in the library.

"I love you," she whispered, and when he just nodded, she asked, "Better?"

"Yes," he said truthfully, for the throbbing ache in his joints had gone, and his head was no longer pulsing with pain. He turned his face toward her and whispered, "I've been awful to your for months."

"No." Bellatrix shook her head vehemently. "No, My Lord. You've been distracted, tormented, busy... you've not been awful. We've been like ghosts in the night, that's all."

"Well, I find I rather despise it," Voldemort said firmly, "and it's not to be that way anymore. I want breakfast with you every single morning, you understand?"

Bellatrix smiled and nodded as she asked, "Do I have to cook it?"

"Only when you want to," Voldemort said, "though you're much better at it than the House-Elves. Every day will begin with breakfast together and end like this. Talking and touching. I will not have it any other way. Am I understood?"

He'd sounded quite harsh, he knew, but he was frankly disgusted by the way they'd been interacting - or not interacting - for months now. Bellatrix just nodded, reaching to hold his jaw in her hand and stretching to touch her lips to his.

"We've made progress," she reminded him. "That's what matters."

Voldemort almost agreed with her, but then he remembered everything he already had, and he whispered to her, "You are what matters, Bellatrix."

He bent to kiss her more firmly then, tasting tooth powder on her and smelling rose in her hair. He threaded his fingers into her curls and kissed her like he needed it to survive, and he groaned with pleasure when she kissed him back.

His mother's family ring was the Resurrection Stone. But that fact was almost meaningless now. They'd find the Cloak, and then he'd have to start troubleshooting. But for now, all that mattered was the taste and smell and feel of Bellatrix.

 _Ministry of Magic Headquarters, London_

 _22 September 1975_

"Mr Lovegood. Thank you kindly for meeting with me." Bellatrix pulled out a chair in the meeting room she'd reserved, and Xenophilius Lovegood hesitantly sat opposite her.

"You didn't ask me here to discuss a position at the Ministry," he suspected aloud, and Bellatrix sighed as she shook her head.

"No. I'm sure we can work something out for you, but that's not why we're here." She drummed her fingers on the wooden table between them, eyeing the odd pendant that sat against Lovegood's chest, and she said gently, "Why don't you start at the beginning? When did you first learn about that symbol?"

Xenophilius Lovegood put his fingers over the pendant in a protective way, as if he were afraid someone was going to march up to him and tear the necklace from his body. He finally cleared his throat and said,

"When I was a sixth-year Ravenclaw at Hogwarts, we had a transfer student from Durmstrang."

Bellatrix nodded. "Yes. The Alsip boy. I remember; his family brought him back to school in Britain once the Dark Lord's power had cemented."

Lovegood nodded and continued, "He and I became rather good friends, and one rainy day, we were sitting in the library discussing lore and tradition at Durmstrang. He drew a symbol for me - this symbol."

He gestured down to his chest, and Bellatrix frowned. "What did he say the symbol meant?"

"He said that there was always bickering among the students at Durmstrang. Some claimed it was a symbol used by Gellert Grindelwald prior to his fall, that he'd inscribed it at the school. Others insisted it was an old symbol used to illustrate a fairy tale, but Benji Alsip didn't know which story. I put it together in my head... the triangle was the Invisibility Cloak. The circle was the Resurrection Stone. And the line was the Elder Wand. I'd had Babbity Rabbity read to me enough times as a child to remember the Tale of the Three Brothers. To remember the Deathly Hallows."

Bellatrix shrugged. "So you had a pendant made with the symbol? Why was it significant to you?"

Lovegood chewed his lip hard for a moment and then finally admitted, "I saw the Dark Lord's wand before the death of Albus Dumbledore. And the wand he uses today? I saw it in the hand of Albus Dumbledore before his death. It was taken as a trophy. But if it were used as a trophy, it would be mounted above a mantle or hidden away in a glass case. Instead, the Dark Lord uses it."

"He prefers it," Bellatrix said sharply. "What of it?"

Lovegood gave her a look like she was rather daft, and he pointed out, "No wand works quite as well as the wand one is given as a child, hmm? Except, of course, for the Elder Wand. The Dark Lord seized it from Dumbledore, who, I believe, took it from Grindelwald during their legendary duel. And Grindelwald took it from someone else; I've no idea who. But he knew what he had."

Bellatrix blinked a few times and shook her head. "Who told you all of this?"

Xenophilius Lovegood looked downright offended, and he insisted, "I figured it out myself. We Ravenclaws are rather good at figuring. I had this pendant made once I realised what wand the Dark Lord is using. The Hallows are real. The story is true."

"And what does it mean to you if the story is true?" Bellatrix demanded, and Lovegood curled his lips up a little as he said,

"It means that anything can be true. Any myth, any legend that has been written off as mere fantasy. Anything is possible if the Hallows are real."

Bellatrix sighed. She could sense no real threat from Lovegood, and it wouldn't do to punish him for putting these pieces together himself. She folded her hands on the table and asked in a sharp tone,

"Which department would you prefer to work in, Mr Lovegood?"

"I'm fine at the cauldron shop," he insisted, "until I start my own newspaper."

Bellatrix scowled and shook her head. "Independent press is strictly prohibited; you know that. The only newspaper allowed is the Daily Prophet."

"Perhaps I could work there, then," Lovegood suggested lightly. Bellatrix narrowed her eyes at him but rose from her chair and promised him,

"I'll look into it and send you an owl on the matter. Where do you live?"

"Ottery St Catchpole," said Xenophilius Lovegood, still not rising from his chair. Bellatrix sniffed a little and nodded once.

"Good day, Mr Lovegood."

"Good day, Madam Black," he said, and Bellatrix shivered a little as she stepped out into the corridor.

* * *

 _Archer's Edge_

 _22 September 1975_

"It's in the ring. The symbol. It's there; it's embedded in the ring." Voldemort paced anxiously in his office as Bellatrix stood with her arms crossed over her chest. He paused and met her gaze, and he pointed out, "The Gaunt family had had it for centuries, they said. I couldn't figure why such a hideous ring would be the last treasured possession of a ruined family. Now I understand. It was so much more than a ring. It still is."

"It's also a Horcrux, My Lord," Bellatrix pointed out rather sharply. She sounded frustrated as she said, "I suppose I don't understand what the point is of gathering them together. Master of Death. What does that even mean? And if one is a Horcrux?"

Voldemort pursed his lips, his stomach sinking a bit as he admitted to Bellatrix, "I'd have to destroy the Horcrux first. Whatever was left of that black rock would be the Resurrection Stone."

"Wait. What do you mean?" Bellatrix stepped toward him and narrowed her eyes. "The Elder Wand is meant to be extremely powerful on its own, and it is. Are you suggesting that you think the Resurrection Stone is entirely useless whilst it exists as a Horcrux?"

"I cursed the ring," Voldemort said, licking his lip carefully. "I enchanted it so that anyone who put it on would suffer a grave and terrible curse, one that would kill them painfully."

Bellatrix looked confused. "Can't you just remove the curse?"

"Not all curses work like that," Voldemort pointed out. "This one is a particularly Dark spell I learnt in Poland. I spent time in Krakow during the early fifties and... in any case, I'd be apprehensive about physically handling it right now."

"But you said we were taking a field trip to Little Hangleton," Bellatrix pointed out, and Voldemort nodded.

"We are. I need to move it, at least. I have all sorts of spells on the Gaunt shack, but I feel compelled to put it somewhere else. Somewhere safer. At least until we have the Invisibility Cloak and I figure a way to undo the curse."

"That's quite a lot of what-ifs, My Lord," Bellatrix mumbled. Voldemort angrily pulled out his chair and sat at his desk, pressing his fingers against his forehead as he said quietly,

"I need to do some recording. I've been feeling achy and unwell."

"Do you need my help, My Lord?" Bellatrix asked, but Voldemort shook his head. He forced himself to raise his eyes to her, and he said,

"Thank you for meeting with Lovegood. Whether it seems like it or not, it is a giant leap forward in the process to know about the ring's significance. We are in no rush. You understand?"

"I understand," Bellatrix nodded. "We're in no rush."

She left then, and he listened to her boots clack up the winding stone stairs that led to the bedrooms. He cleared his throat and opened his desk drawer, pulling out the book she'd brought back from Croatia. He inked up a quill and opened the book, and he wrote neatly,

 _I have grown very weary of hearing my sister-in-law complain of her endless miscarriages, and I informed her husband of the ability to grant her proper fertility using the process I undertook in Spain._

He paused, letting the words sink into the page. He chewed his lip for a moment and then wrote,

 _When Lucius balked at the notion, I asked him whether he was a coward or whether he was sterile himself. He hesitated for too long, and so I cast a nonverbal hex upon him to render him hopelessly impotent for a few months._

That ink sank into the page, too, and Voldemort tapped his hand on the desk. He sighed heavily and wrote one last passage.

 _When I told Bellatrix about all this, she said she was just relieved there would be a reprieve in hearing about miscarriages. Whilst I feel no compunction or guilt about my actions, I suspect they qualify as 'wicked,' so I am entering them here._

He shut the book and put it away, and after a few moments with his eyes shut, his body felt a bit stronger. He knew, though, that only Bellatrix could ever truly take away the creak in his joints and the headaches. He made his way out of his office and up the staircase, considering to himself that he hadn't asked her to heal him with her magic in a very long while. When he came into the bedroom, she was getting ready for bed, standing in the bathroom in a flowing white nightgown and scrubbing at her teeth. She turned her eyes toward him and then spit out the paste in the sink, rinsing her mouth and dabbing at her lips with a little towel.

"Quidditch match tomorrow, if you're amenable," Voldemort reminded her, peeling off his clothes one piece at a time. "Puddlemere United and the Pride of Portree. We'll need to look entirely neutral during the match, of course; it's just a public appearance. You don't have to come."

"I want to come," Bellatrix said, and though he suspected she was lying, she smiled and said again. "I want to come and sit with you in the box."

"All right, then." Voldemort nodded and rolled his shoulders back, hesitating for a moment. Bellatrix sensed his unease, and she strode toward him and put her hands upon his bare shoulders. Just that touch felt so good that Voldemort made a little involuntary noise. Bellatrix seemed to know exactly what he wanted, what he needed of her, and she whispered,

"Why don't you lie on your back?"

He made his way silently to the bed and climbed beneath the covers, watching as Bellatrix climbed in beside him. She curled up against him, which was something she hadn't done in so long that Voldemort had almost forgotten the sensation. It felt magnificent to have her warm breath on his skin, to have her fingers ghosting over his shoulder and her leg snared around his.

"What hurts you?" Bellatrix murmured, and Voldemort was almost overwhelmed with love for her in that moment. He struggled to speak, but he finally managed to say,

"Knees. Shoulders. Bad headaches, always in the front."

"Hmmm." Bellatrix lay there for quite a while, just touching him and breathing slowly. In his mind, Voldemort could feel her reliving some of their more intimate moments. She was beneath him on the bed in Malfoy Manor, gasping with pleasure as he took her gently for the first time. She was tied up in this bed, squirming and moaning desperately. She was back in the townhouse in St Alban's Grove with him plundering her against the books in the library.

"I love you," she whispered, and when he just nodded, she asked, "Better?"

"Yes," he said truthfully, for the throbbing ache in his joints had gone, and his head was no longer pulsing with pain. He turned his face toward her and whispered, "I've been awful to your for months."

"No." Bellatrix shook her head vehemently. "No, My Lord. You've been distracted, tormented, busy... you've not been awful. We've been like ghosts in the night, that's all."

"Well, I find I rather despise it," Voldemort said firmly, "and it's not to be that way anymore. I want breakfast with you every single morning, you understand?"

Bellatrix smiled and nodded as she asked, "Do I have to cook it?"

"Only when you want to," Voldemort said, "though you're much better at it than the House-Elves. Every day will begin with breakfast together and end like this. Talking and touching. I will not have it any other way. Am I understood?"

He'd sounded quite harsh, he knew, but he was frankly disgusted by the way they'd been interacting - or not interacting - for months now. Bellatrix just nodded, reaching to hold his jaw in her hand and stretching to touch her lips to his.

"We've made progress," she reminded him. "That's what matters."

Voldemort almost agreed with her, but then he remembered everything he already had, and he whispered to her, "You are what matters, Bellatrix."

He bent to kiss her more firmly then, tasting tooth powder on her and smelling rose in her hair. He threaded his fingers into her curls and kissed her like he needed it to survive, and he groaned with pleasure when she kissed him back.

His mother's family ring was the Resurrection Stone. But that fact was almost meaningless now. They'd find the Cloak, and then he'd have to start troubleshooting. But for now, all that mattered was the taste and smell and feel of Bellatrix.

* * *

 _Isle of Skye, Scotland_

 _23 September 1975_

Bellatrix's heart thudded frantically as she gripped Voldemort's hand. She did not think that she would ever, as long as she lived, get used to the massive outpouring of adoration that occurred every single time Lord Voldemort appeared in public. Finally, after the cheering and shrieking and clapping had begun to die down, Voldemort sank into his chair in the private box, and Bellatrix sat beside him. Her breath shook between her lips as Abraxas Malfoy came into the box and silently took his own seat to Voldemort's left.

The match was being announced by a Ministry witch whose voice Bellatrix didn't recognise, but she introduced herself as Rolanda Hooch. Bellatrix could see her across the Quidditch pitch where she sat in the announcer's box; she looked like a twiggy middle-aged woman full of confidence.

"Is that the new head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports, My Lord?" Bellatrix asked quietly, and Voldemort flicked his eyes to Abraxas, who nodded vigorously and affirmed,

"Yes, My Lady. That's her. Rolanda Hooch. She used to play Chaser for the Holyhead Harpies."

Bellatrix nodded and watched as the Snitch was released and the match began. It became almost intolerably dull quite quickly. An hour passed with absolutely no sign of either Seeker spotting the Snitch. Ten points here, ten points there, and a great many stops by two skilled Keepers. It was quite cold, so cold that Bellatrix had a mug of hot chocolate beside her and Voldemort had worn the elegant heavy cloak she'd made for Christmas almost two years earlier.

At one point, Bellatrix almost fell asleep, until she felt a powerful, sudden sensation of desire coursing through her veins. Her eyes sprang open and she glared at Voldemort, watching as he casually dragged his right thumb over his Dark Mark beneath the many layers of his robes. Bellatrix squirmed helplessly, for the ache between her legs was getting a bit out of control. She wanted to give Voldemort the benefit of the doubt, to think that he had been touching his Mark absentmindedly, but he smirked as he stared ahead at the pitch. Bellatrix huffed in frustration, crossing her arms over chest and trying desperately to throw up Occlumency shields.

 _Nice_ _try_ , she felt Voldemort think. He barreled straight into her mind with stronger feelings than ever of arousal, and when Bellatrix scowled at him, he thought, _Uncross your arms, do not fall asleep, and stop looking at me like I'm your enemy. I'm merely keeping you awake, My Lady._

She scoffed bitterly but took her arms down and squeezed roughly at her knees. She tried to stare at the Quidditch match, at the players whizzing by before them. But as the feeling grew more and more inescapable, Bellatrix found herself doing everything she could to silence the moans that wanted to tear themselves from her lips. Puddlemere United scored a crafty goal, and the team's blue-and-gold contingent broke into wild cheers. Bellatrix used the opportunity to groan softly, and then everything snapped and she came. The roar of the crowd was still echoing between her ears as she wrenched her eyes shut, panted, and reached desperately for the edge of the table beside her chair. She accidentally bumped her mug of hot chocolate, and she only snapped out of the ecstasy of her climax when she heard the mug shatter on the wooden box floor.

"Oh. Silly... erm... sorry..." Bellatrix couldn't find the words for a complete sentence. Abraxas Malfoy looked quite concerned, and he asked sincerely,

"My Lady, are you quite all right?"

"I'm fine, Minister," Bellatrix nodded, staring at the broken mug and puddle of hot chocolate. Voldemort took his wand out and nonverbally Vanished both, and he said to Abraxas,

"Go to Concessions and have them whip her up a hot toddy, will you?"

"At once, My Lord," Abraxas nodded, rising and then bowing quickly. He disappeared from the box, and for a half second Bellatrix wanted to laugh at the fact that Abraxas Malfoy was fetching her hot whiskey.

" _Delenio_ ," Voldemort murmured, surreptitiously aiming his wand between his legs. His apparent erection wasn't visibly through all his thick clothing, but his voice did tremble a little as he said, "I apologise. I took that much too far; I'm not entirely sure why. For fuck's sake. _Delenio_!"

Bellatrix stared at him, adjusting the hood of her black woolen cloak as she said gently,

"It's been a long while since we've played that game, hmm? Perhaps that's why."

He nodded and tucked his wand away, licking his bottom lip and staring determinedly at the Quidditch match. The two Seekers were now racing in unison after an unseen target, and Bellatrix found herself begging aloud,

"Oh, please let one of them find it. I don't even care who; just let one of them end this nonsense."

"Well, if you were a Pride of Portree fan, you'd be hoping their Seeker was just keeping Puddlemere United away from the Snitch. Considering that they're down by more than a hundred and fifty points."

"My Lady," Abraxas Malfoy said, appearing at the curtains that led into the box. He held out the glass mug of hot, spiced whiskey to her, and Bellatrix nodded her thanks. She sipped at the drink as Abraxas sat, and from what she could tell, the Portree Seeker and managed to send her opponent careening between two goalposts. They'd lost sight of the Snitch, and the match carried on.

"My Lord," Malfoy began carefully from his seat, "I was wondering if there was any possibility... if it might be possible in some way for Lucius to get some time off for a holiday."

"A holiday," Voldemort repeated. He threw up an eyebrow and demanded, "Why doesn't he ask me himself? He's a grown man. Married."

"Yes. That's, erm... that's rather the problem, I'm afraid, My Lord." Abraxas' cheeks went red, and he shot Bellatrix an apologetic look as he said to Voldemort, "Things are a little difficult right now; Cerda and I often hear arguing, and... well, I've said too much."

"You probably have," Voldemort nodded. His eyes scanned across the pitch, and he winced a little when a Puddlemere Chaser took a Bludger straight to his shoulder. He flicked his gaze to Malfoy and said firmly, "Somehow I don't suspect a little holiday can undo all of the angst inflicted by eight miscarriages in two years."

Bellatrix felt a surge of negative emotion - anger and pity and a wretched sort of grief. She sighed and said to her husband,

"My Lord, perhaps Lucius and Narcissa could join us privately for dinner. Then you might discern whether or not time off from his duties would be beneficial to Lucius in any way. And perhaps it might do them good to be reminded that they both serve important roles outside of procreation."

Voldemort turned up half his mouth and nodded at her. He glanced to Malfoy and said,

"You see why she's my greatest diplomat."

"That's always been very clear, My Lord," Malfoy smiled. Bellatrix suggested,

"Perhaps tomorrow evening, My Lord. Six-thirty? For steaks."

"She's got it all planned out," Voldemort nodded, still watching the match. "Malfoy, tell Lucius and Narcissa to be at Archer's Edge at six-thirty tomorrow."

"Thank you, My Lord," Abraxas Malfoy sighed gratefully.

Suddenly the Puddlemere United Seeker soared straight upward, as if he were reaching for the heavens themselves. His arm was outstretched as he rocketed up. Gasps and near silence took over the entire stadium. Voldemort smirked and sat back a little, and he shrugged as the Puddlemere Seeker closed his gloved hand around something glistening.

"Well, that's that," he said over the roar of the crowd. He rose and the roar grew louder. Bellatrix stood beside him and waited as the entire squad of Puddlemere United gathered in a straight line, hovering about fifty feet away from the box. The Pride of Portree team came over, as well, and Voldemort called out to them,

"A skillfully played match by both teams. To the vanquished, I wish you luck in future endeavours. Congratulations to the victors."

He turned away, taking Bellatrix with him through the curtains that led to the box.

* * *

 _Archer's Edge_

 _23 September 1975_

"Bakky will serve the food as soon as we're all seated. I requested a nice, dry Merlot," Bellatrix said simply as she came back into the bedroom. Voldemort cinched up his black tie and reached inside the wardrobe for his tie bar. Bellatrix was already dressed, and he studied her pretty form as she shifted on her feet and said, "Thank you, My Lord, for hosting them."

"This isn't a marriage counseling session, Bella," Voldemort reminded him. He shucked on an emerald green velvet robe and gave her a meaningful look. "I can't have the son of my Minister utterly useless. I'll probably take that hex off him; I'm sure it's not helping."

"Actually..." Bellatrix pursed her lips and considered, "It probably is helping, at least a little."

"How do you mean?" Voldemort demanded, pushing his feet into his black leather shoes. Bellatrix smirked a little and said,

"I caught Lucius with a whore in Russia. Goodness knows what he'd be doing with his frustrated self when his wife is a perpetually-bleeding, sobbing mess."

"He loves her, though," Voldemort said, a bit confused. "What should it matter if she's a mess? If she is, then he ought to try and fix that, not dash off with whores."

Bellatrix stared at him for such a long while that he began to feel rather self-conscious. He shrugged, and Bellatrix said,

"You're a better man than you give yourself for being, My Lord."

"Hmm." Voldemort stepped into the bathroom and double-checked that all was well with his appearance. He dragged his fingers over the scruff on his jaw and swore aloud. "Forgot to shave. Damn it all."

"Grow it back, will you? Please?" Bellatrix had appeared in the doorway to the bathroom, and she gave him a rather desperate look. "You know how I feel about the beard."

"A beard _and_ spectacles?" Voldemort threw his eyebrows up and turned to hold her by the waist. He narrowed his eyes at her and said, "Seems like a little too much accommodation for a thirsty little witch."

He felt the surge of want from her then, and suddenly he realised it wasn't the worst thing in the world, as he approached his fiftieth year, if his pretty young wife found him attractive. He tipped his head and tucked Bellatrix's hair behind her ear.

"Fine. You win. Beard _and_ spectacles."

Bellatrix grinned and nodded. She leaned up to touch her lips to his, and she whispered,

"I love you. So much."

They'd spent a few hours earlier in the day hemming and hawing about going to Little Hangleton, and they'd finally decided to go the next week. It had been stressful and exciting to contemplate breaking back into the Gaunt shack, digging his Horcrux out of the floorboards, and trying to remove his fatal curse from it.

Bellatrix had offered ten times to stay home, for she hadn't wanted to intrude upon the most private place in Lord Voldemort's existence. But now, as he brushed his lips against hers again, he knew he wanted her there.

"You have to come with me," he murmured. "I want to come to Little Hangleton."

"Yes, My Lord." Bellatrix nodded and pulled back, steadying her face as she told him, "Whatever pleases you."

"My Lord! My Lady! Pardon the intrusion, but... the guests have arrived!" Bakky's crackling voice sounded from the corridor at the top of the winding stairs, and Bellatrix barked over her shoulder,

"We'll be right down. Show them to the dining-room."

* * *

"So." Bellatrix sawed a bite of steak and poked her fork into it, "Long time, no see, Cissy."

Voldemort nearly rolled his eyes as the joke fell flat. Of course, they'd seen Lucius and Narcissa just a few days prior for Bellatrix's birthday party, but their misery had been obvious even then. Lucius Malfoy silently took a bite of steak, and Narcissa said quietly,

"You often worry that your House-Elf overcooks steaks. This one's quite good."

"Oh, I'm so very glad to hear that." Bellatrix set her fork down and stared at Voldemort, begging him with a wordless thought to say something helpful. He sipped from his Merlot and cleared his throat, deciding this was not the time or place for censorship.

"Difficulties with fertility, and the inevitable difficulty with intimacy created by such a situation, can utterly a destroy a marriage if left unchecked," he said sharply. Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy stared wide-eyed at him, then at each other, then at Voldemort again. He folded his hands on the table and continued,

"The two of you have been enamoured with one another for a very long time. By all accounts, Madam Malfoy, you have seen Healers and taken potions and done everything in your power to maintain a pregnancy. It has not worked."

"No, My Lord. It hasn't," Narcissa admitted. Voldemort turned his eyes on Lucius and said sharply,

"And you, Lucius, have decided that sex is more important than grieving with your spouse." He didn't elaborate on that; Narcissa didn't need to know of Lucius' infidelity. Lucius obvious got the reference, and his cheeks went red. It was fine, Voldemort thought, that Narcissa think Voldemort had been talking about her. He sipped his wine again and said in a stern voice,

"You're both only twenty years of age. Narcissa, I want you taking long-term contraceptive potions - one year a time - for the next three years. Give your body a break, and it may do what you want when you ask it again. The two of you will repair your relationship, procreation entirely aside, so that I don't have to clean up the mess of a divorce between my sister-in-law and the son of my Minister. Absolutely no further attempts toward pregnancy for three years. Have I made myself quite clear?"

Narcissa's mouth fell open, but she nodded silently and her eyes welled up. Lucius bowed his head submissively and said,

"Your mercy is far too vast, My Lord. I am grateful for your sage advice."

"This isn't advice; it's an order," Voldemort clarified, a strong bite in his voice. Lucius looked surprised but nodded, and Voldemort wordlessly waved his arm beneath the table and removed the Impotence Hex he'd placed on the boy during an earlier meeting. Lucius' brows furrowed, as though he'd felt something change within his body, and Voldemort said quickly, "I find I've no appetite for dessert this evening. I've finished eating."

He dabbed his napkin to his lips and set it down on the table. Everyone else was only mostly finished with their steaks and potatoes, but now was one of those important opportunities for Lord Voldemort to demonstrate that things happened when convenient for him. He rose from his chair, and the others followed suit. Voldemort walked silently from the dining-room, and from behind him, he heard Bellatrix say gently,

"Thank you both for coming. Cissy, I've actually got that potion here in our stores. I'll dose you before you leave."

An hour later, Bellatrix found him in the library, reading up on removing the most stubborn of Curses. She leaned against the wall, crossing her arms over her chest, and she threw up an eyebrow.

"Who's the diplomat now?"

"Diplomat." Voldemort shut the book he'd been reading and stared at her through the thick lenses of his glasses. "Those weren't negotiations. I gave them no options."

"It was mercy, just the same. And it was, if I may say so, quite shrewd. Manipulative in all the right ways."

"Oh, good. The Sorting Hat didn't muck up putting me in Slytherin, then," Voldemort mumbled, opening the book back up. He pointed to the segment he'd been examining and read it aloud to Bellatrix,

 _"If a hex or curse is particularly stubborn in being removed from a object, it can be submerged in a copper cauldron filled with salt water and three coins of different denominations. The salt water in the copper cauldron should be boiled for precisely seventy-seven hours, at which point the coins will have absorbed the powers of the curse. The previously cursed object will then be rendered harmless_."

Bellatrix looked surprised. "Moving the curse to coins through boiling salt water? That's it?"

"Copper cauldron, too," Voldemort smirked, pointing at the page. He shrugged and admitted, "I admit I've placed far more curses than I've removed. I don't know if it'll work with the ring; hopefully silver tongs and dragon-hide gloves to put it into the cauldron will work. Nothing to do but try."

Bellatrix was nervous then. He could feel it radiating off of her, and he shut the book as he told her,

"I've been in your mother's house a great many times, Bella. Your turn, eh?"

"You're not him anymore," Bellatrix reminded him. "You're not Tom Marvolo Riddle. You're Lord Voldemort."

"You're right," he nodded. "I am Lord Voldemort. But..."

He rose from his chair and moved to hover over Bellatrix, staring down at her wide eyes as he said,

"It was the year you were born, actually. The year I refused to use that name anymore, to shuck it entirely and commit wholly to the name of Lord Voldemort. But it isn't as though I was a different man in 1954 than I was in 1956, Bellatrix. Denying one's disgusting origins and changing one's name is helpful in achieving potential, but it does not change the person within. Look at the book you brought from Croatia. I had to write all manner of deeds performed by Tom Marvolo Riddle. Why? Because I did them. The schoolboy who killed his Muggle father and put that ring beneath the floorboards of that shack? He's called something else now, but I'm still him. You understand?"

She did. She did understand. He could see the profound realisation as it crossed over her eyes and seeped into her mind. She put her lips into a line and said quite firmly,

"I understand, My Lord. I look forward to visiting Little Hangleton."

"Don't get too excited," he said, leaning down to touch his lips to her forehead. "It's a dreadful place. Let's go to bed."


	2. Chapter 2

Little Hangleton, Yorkshire

29 September 1975

"Well," Voldemort said, sounding more than a little disgruntled, "this is it."

Bellatrix gazed down between the two steep hills that cradled the village like a mother holding an infant. It was almost bucolic, the way the church steeple and small graveyard were nestled among cottages and a short High Street.

"It doesn't look so bad," Bellatrix argued, but when she looked up to Voldemort, he flattened his lips and pointed off in the distance.

"You see that house over there? That manor house?"

Bellatrix shaded her eyes and nodded, taking in the sight of the stately home off to one side of the village. She glanced up to Voldemort again, and he said sternly,

"That was my father's house. We're going there first."

He started to walk down the grassy hill, and Bellatrix hurried to catch up with him. She felt breathless as she trotted beside him, trying not to stumble among the large stones that were burrowed into the hill.

"I thought the ring was in the Gaunt shack," she said, and Voldemort sounded impatient as he barked,

"It is. If I want to go into the Riddle house, I will."

"Of course, My Lord." Bellatrix kept her mouth shut after that, knowing she was in sensitive territory with him, both physically and mentally. She followed him down the knoll toward Little Hangleton, and as they neared a small cottage that seemed to be on the same property as the Riddle house, Voldemort squared his jaw and said firmly,

"He's in there. Frank Bryce."

"Who's Frank Bryce, My Lord?" Bellatrix asked nervously. Voldemort shot her a meaningful look and said,

"The caretaker. He was framed for... well, the Ministry thought it was my uncle Morfin, and the Muggles thought it was Frank Bryce who had done it. But they released him for lack of evidence. So far as I know, the house is owned for tax evasion by a wealthy Muggle from London, but only Frank Bryce stays around it."

Bellatrix could see in his mind then that he'd come here about ten years earlier, that he'd done a bit of Transfigured snooping and had discovered that Muggle children liked to dare one another to creep near the abandoned house. Frank Bryce kept the exterior up but never went inside, and the place had been seriously degraded by the last thirty years.

"Stay here," Voldemort snapped, and Bellatrix's feet froze. Voldemort walked confidently on toward the little cottage, and she heard him murmur an Unlocking Charm as he aimed the Elder Wand at the cottage's door. Then she saw a vivid blue flash of light through the window, and she knew that Voldemort had Stupefied Frank Bryce. There was a long pause of silence during which Bellatrix found herself gripping her own wand nervously. He was probably Obliviating or Confounding Bryce, Bellatrix thought, to buy them time in the Riddle house. Finally, Voldemort came back out of the cottage, straightening the heavy cloak that Bellatrix had made for him, which he'd worn over lightweight linen robes. It seemed as though today he'd gone for the most thoroughly Magical look he could muster. He strode back up to where Bellatrix stood and nodded crisply.

"All right. We can go in," he said simply, and Bellatrix did not ask for any further information. She just followed him past the cottage, over the cleanly manicured lawns that led up to the Riddle house. It was a stately place, and even looked like it had been painted recently, but as they got nearer, Bellatrix could smell rotten wood and could see shattered glass in the windowpanes.

"He could try just a bit harder to keep the place up," Voldemort mumbled, sounded exasperated. Bellatrix ran up the front steps, hurrying to keep pace with his long strides. He paused with his hand on the heavy brass doorknob, seeming for a moment as though he were reconsidering his decision to go inside.

"Whatever you want to do today, My Lord, is what will happen," Bellatrix told him. He turned his eyes to her for a moment, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose and sighing a little. He finally turned the doorknob and pushed the door open. It creaked loudly in protest, and it jammed halfway. Voldemort pushed roughly on the door to force it the rest of the way open, and he stepped over the threshold into a house that seemed like it had once been extravagant and elegant.

Bellatrix looked up to see a chandelier with half its crystals missing, covered in cobwebs and dust. Suddenly Bellatrix could see it illuminated with Muggle light bulbs, glistening in the night, and she knew she was seeing Voldemort's memory from the night he'd come here with murder on his mind. She followed him past a heavy staircase lined with ratty, mouldy carpeting. The floorboards squeaked and splintered under their footsteps, and in many places of the foyer, the patterned wallpaper had peeled off and collapsed. Voldemort led her into a sitting-room, and suddenly Bellatrix felt unexplainable nausea wash over her.

An image flashed in her mind - two elderly Muggles and their son, who far too closely resembled Voldemort, gaping in horror as jade light took them over one by one. Then the image was gone from Bellatrix's mind, replaced by the reality of moth-eaten green velvet furniture an a piano that looked like it had been chewed up and spit back out.

She said nothing. She didn't need to say anything. This was the room where he'd killed his grandparents and father. Here he'd taken a hatchet to the ignominious reason he'd been born in the first place, to the deception and hatred and the ugly Muggle past. Bellatrix chewed her lip and kept her eyes averted, not wanting to embarrass Voldemort by staring at him.

"Come here," he said at last, and bellatrix glanced up in confusion. He'd walked over to a weathered brown leather wingback chair before an empty marble fireplace. He sat down and patted his knee, saying again, "Come here, Bellatrix.

She didn't dare disobey him. Not here. Not now. She walked on shaking legs to where he sat, and she didn't fight him when he pulled her down by her waist. She let him arrange her knees on either side of his hips. She let him stare at her like she was water in the desert. She watched as he reached between them and unbuttoned his trousers, and she didn't need to ask why he was doing that.

Bellatrix hiked up her skirts and touched her wand between her legs, murmuring, "Lubrico." She was nowhere near wet, for this place was anything but arousing, but she knew what her lord and husband needed just now. Somehow, when he pulled his cock out, he was already hard, but if he'd used a spell to induce an erection, Bellatrix hadn't noticed.

"What, you think I don't actually want it?" His voice was cold then, and his eyes went sharp as he informed her, "Delicious things happen in this room, Bellatrix."

She tried not to shiver at that. She glanced beyond him to the divan, thinking back to the flash of his memory. The father who had been tricked with a love potion into marrying a witch, the dirty Muggle whose facial features were all over his son, had been sitting on that divan when Voldemort had entered the room.

"Bella."

She turned her face back to him and let him guide her down onto his cock. She bobbed up and down slowly, knowing she wasn't going to come close to actually enjoying this. But she cupped his scruffy face in her hands and bent to kiss him as she moved. In his kiss, she felt power - almost unlimited power that frightened her with the way it made her heart race. She couldn't help but moan at the feel of his hands on her waist then, at the way his magic was crackling in the air around them. Faster and faster she moved, his hands urging her on as the buzz around them grew more insistent.

"Bella," he whispered desperately. Suddenly Bellatrix remembered what had happened that night in Malfoy Manor when they'd snuck out of Narcissa's wedding.

"My Lord," she murmured, but it was no use. His eyes were squeezed shut behind his glasses. His lips were shaking, and his hands were so tight on her waist that it hurt. Bellatrix braced herself, and so was only a little surprised when he came and everything went white around them.

The light flashed and a huge boom ricocheted off the walls as his magic detonated. Somehow it seemed fitting, Bellatrix thought distantly, that he mark up this room with his orgasm and his magic. She watched as the glass left in the windowsills was obliterated, as the green velvet furniture upon which his murdered family had sat was torn to shreds. The wallpaper exploded off the walls, fluttering to the ground like confetti.

Voldemort kept his eyes shut for a long moment, his lips curling up just a little as he went soft inside Bellatrix. She pulled herself off of him and rearranged her knickers, rising slowly from the chair and surveying the damage again.

He didn't apologise. He just sat there for a long moment, staring at Bellatrix and nodding. Finally he whispered,

"Thank you, little thing."

Bellatrix forced a melancholy smile. "Of course, My Lord."

* * *

The Gaunt family shack hadn't changed much in the years since Voldemort had returned here to protect his Horcrux. It had been decrepit decades earlier, and it was decrepit now. Thick trees grew all around the house. The roof was half gone. The door hung akimbo on makeshift hinges. It was small and grimy and shameful.

Voldemort stepped through the wall of his protective enchantments, pulling Bellatrix by her hand as the spells vibrated and thudded around them. Once they were on the other side of Voldemort's barriers, he glanced down at her and said,

"Makes your parents' London townhouse seem like paradise, doesn't it?"

""I dn't believe in paradise, My Lord," Bellatrix murmured, studying the shack, "though Archer's Edge comes close."

He couldn't help but smile a little at that. He took a moment to survey the scene before him - Bellatrix Black in all her resplendent beauty, standing before the place where Voldemort's most pivotal revelations had come to pass. He gulped, feeling an unwelcome spike of emotion, and stepped over the nettles and leaves up toward the shack.

"Cecilia said it was an eyesore," Voldemort mused. "She laughed at it, at the people who lived inside."

"Who's Cecilia?" Bellatrix asked curiously. Voldemort flicked his eyes to her, showing her the brief memory he'd gleaned from Morfin of Cecilia on a grey horse with his father.

"Just a Muggle wench," Voldemort said. He walked up to the broken wooden door and pushed it open, and when he stepped into the shack, he may as well have been outdoors. There was moss everywhere. Every surface was covered in a grimy sheen of mud. Nettles and broken roof tiles were scattered all about. There was a small round table with four broken chairs around it. The sorry excuse for a kitchen was just a single cupboard and a tiny stretch of wooden countertop that sagged under its moisture damage. A mildewed mattress in the corner had clearly become a home for various animals over the years.

"A miserable place, home to miserable people," Voldemort lamented, remembering the way his uncle Morfin had told him that he looked just like the snooty Muggle that his sister Merope had loved so dearly.

"My Lord," Bellatrix said quietly, "It is a tragic story. All of it. The life your mother led here. The way she felt compelled to trick a Muggle boy into loving her. The way he abandoned her. The way she died. The way you spent your childhood in that orphanage. It's tragic. But, My Lord, one step leads to another, and if it hadn't happened just so, we wouldn't have you."

"We," he repeated, and Bellatrix nodded.

"All of wizarding Britain, My Lord."

He took a step toward her, taking her pretty alabaster cheeks in his hands and bending to plant a careful kiss on her lips.

"It could only ever have been you," he told her, and she smirked.

"I was just about to say the same to you."

He huffed out a breath, a little overwhelmed by her then. He stepped over near the table and crouched down, drawing a circle on the floorboards and whispering,

"Diffindo."

The wood sliced away and collapsed downward, revealing the pit that Voldemort had used to conceal his Horcrux. He reached into the hold and pulled out the ornamental gold box, a trinket he'd procured during a trip to Bulgaria many years earlier. He dragged his thumb over the carved gold, his chest thudding as he felt the presence of his Horcrux inside the box. He glanced up to Bellatrix and said,

"Copper cauldron. Salt water. Coins in three denominations."

She nodded. "Boil for precisely seventy-seven hours."

Voldemort rose, holding the box in one hand and reaching into the pocket of his robes with the other. He wrapped his fingers around the tie bar Bellatrix had given him years earlier, the object he'd enchanted to allow him to Apparate at will. He glanced back to Bellatrix, to the serpent necklace around her neck, and he told her,

"You go ahead home. I'll be along in a moment."

She seemed to realise that he needed just a blink of time here on his own. She nodded and Disapparated from where she stood. Once she was gone, Voldemort licked his bottom lip and looked around the shack. Suddenly he knew who he would bring back if, in fact, he could make the Resurrection Stone work. For a while he'd been considering that there was no dead person with whom he actually wanted to convene again. Now, looking around the dilapidated Gaunt shack, he looked down at the gold box and peeled back the lid, staring at the symbol of the Deathly Hallows.

And suddenly he decided that he'd learn once and for all what sort of witch Merope Gaunt had been.

* * *

Archer's Edge

29 September, 1975

"One Galleon."

Bellatrix handed the coin to Voldemort, who used a silver ladle to lower it to the bottom of the copper cauldron. She handed him a Sickle, and then a Knut, and one by one he lowered the coins down to the bottom of the cauldron.

"More salt," Voldemort commanded. Bellatrix picked up her clay pot of salt, pulling out the large cork stopper and passing it over to Voldemort. He used the wooden spoon from the side to scoop about ten more spoonfuls of salt into the water, using his potions stirring stick to incorporate it. Then he cracked open the lid of the gleaming golden box in which he had kept his Horcrux hidden for years. He sniffed lightly and just stared at it for a long moment, and his mind was utterly blank to Bellatrix. Finally he picked up the pair of dragon hide gloves from the counter and slid them onto his hands, and Bellatrix handed him a pair of silver tongs. Voldemort's throat bobbed visibly, but he used the tongs to carefully lift the ring from the velvet-lined box.

It was an ugly ring, Bellatrix thought. The metal was banged and scarred. The black stone was roughly hewn. She could see the symbol of the Deathly Hallows, the one that Xenophilius Lovegood had worn around his neck. It was burrowed into the stone as though carved from within.

Bellatrix watched as Voldemort lowered the ring into the water. Instantly, there was a hiss and a gurgle, and she took a step back carefully as he flashed her a warning look. He let the ring sit atop the coins at the bottom of the salt water, and then he sighed with relief as he set the tongs down and removed the dragon hide gloves. He pulled out the Elder Wand and aimed it at the copper cauldron, murmuring,

"Undisacqua."

The water set to boiling at once, and Voldemort crossed his arms over his chest as he noted,

"Seventy-seven hours."

"Yes, My Lord." Bellatrix looked at the clock on the wall and said, "You'll want to remove it at ten-thirty on Thursday night, then."

He nodded and said firmly to her, "I'm not going to be able to sleep properly tonight. I'm sure you can figure why."

"Would you like to take a draught to sleep, My Lord?" Bellatrix suggested. "You do have a meeting tomorrow with all the Death Eaters at Malfoy Manor. Monthly check-in."

"Yes. I know." He nodded his head, and his eyes seemed a little cold as he said, "I would like to become exceptionally intoxicated tonight."

Bellatrix frowned. She was loathe to question him, especially after seeing in Little Hangleton the way his raw power could explode, the way his heartlessness could rear its head at any time. She said cautiously,

"My Lord, with all due respect... do you think it wise to drink heavily when the ring's just started in the boiling water? With a meeting tomorrow?"

"Who said anything about drinking heavily?" Voldemort snapped, making his way across the kitchen to the potions store. "I said 'exceptionally intoxicated,' not 'sloppy drunk.' The two are not synonymous."

Bellatrix wondered then what exact substance he had in mind. She was more than a little surprised to see him pull out a small, painted wooden pipe and a little blue glass jar.

"My Lord?" she asked carefully, taking a step toward him as he shut the potions cupboard door. "Is that... is that Dragon's Breath?"

He turned to her and rolled his eyes. "Since the day I met you, you've been fearless and vicious, hungry for sex and thirsty for blood, and you mean to be a prude now of all times?"

Bellatrix sighed and shook her head. "I'm not a prude. I know it can't kill you, that you can't become dependent on it. It's just... I've never seen it in person, that's all. Much less used it. I didn't know you could still find it; last I'd heard, it meant a ten year sentence in Azkaban."

"Yes, well. Lord Voldemort himself can access whatever he wants. In any case, I used it quite a bit during my time in Dubrovnik all those years ago. I know what I'm doing."

"I'm sure you do, My Lord." Bellatrix followed him from the kitchen, down a long corridor that led to another of the castle's towers. In the lower level of that tower were Bellatrix's and Voldemort's offices, but he bypassed those rooms to head up the stairs. Bellatix expected him to go to the right, to the expansive master bedroom where they spent their nights, but he veered left instead. Bellatrix frowned a little as they walked into the spare bedroom, glancing around at the unfamiliar furnishings. Before she could ask why they'd come in here, Voldemort said simply,

"Change of scenery."

Bellatrix stayed quiet as she watched him strip off most of his clothes. She'd spoken less today than any day in a great long while, she knew, but it had been difficult to find the right words in Little Hangleton, and it was just as difficult now. She hadn't been scared speechless by Voldemort since the earliest days they'd spent together, but now she felt like she'd been propelled straight back to the era of furtive journal note-passing.

Once Voldemort had stripped to his bottom layer of robes, he kicked off his shoes and climbed on top of the plush velveteen coverlet on the bed. Bellatrix gulped and removed her own boots and outer layers, and she lay on the bed beside him. She watched as he crossed his legs and set the pipe down on one thigh, opening the glass jar and carefully pouring its contents into a hole in the pipe.

"Just a few breaths each should do fine," he murmured, and Bellatrix frowned as she shook her head.

"I don't need any. Thank you, anyway."

He scowled at her. "It's completely harmless."

If that was true, Bellatrix thought, then she and her fellow students had been spun a lie by Professor Slughorn, who had insisted that Dragon's Breath had once been a social scourge on wizarding Britain. As a substance, Slughorn had said, the smoked powder had little addictive quality. But the feeling of peaceful sedation in induced could be so alluring, he'd said, that dens for using Dragon's Breath had cropped up in Knockturn Alley by the turn of the century.

Bellatrix chewed her lip as Voldemort held his wand beneath the pipe to heat it. He drew a long breath in and held it, shut his eyes, and swayed a little where he sat. He blew out the smoke and repeated the process a few times. Finally he whispered,

"If you don't want any, Bella, then don't take any. I won't force you. I just wanted to talk, that's all."

She furrowed her brows and demanded, "You can't talk to me without Dragon's Breath?"

He stared at her, his eyes suddenly glassy and serene. "It's easier, today at least, with a little help."

He wordlessly held the pipe out, and Bellatrix hesitantly accepted it. She let him heat the bottom of the pipe with his wand, and when she breathed in, it took everything she had not to cough and splutter.

"Hold it in," Voldemort informed her. She did, and very immediately, she felt a blissful, painless blur come over her head. She blew out the smoke and breathed in again once Voldemort heated the pipe, but after two more breaths in, she mumbled,

"That's enough."

She found herself lying on her back then, staring at the ceiling, and Voldemort settled onto his back beside her.

"There's a crack up there," she heard him say. "Foundation must be... I must not have leveled it properly."

"That's all right," Bellatrix replied. Her voice sounded dreamy and distant even to her own ears. "There are so many cracks in my parents' house in London. When I was ten, I stole my father's wand and tried to fix a crack in the plaster near my bed. It had been driving me mad."

Voldemort laughed, sounding a little unhinged. He turned his face toward Bellatrix and asked,

"How did that work out?"

"With a visit from a Ministry official and a crack that never got fixed," Bellatrix grumbled. "It's probably still there."

"I'll fix it for you," Voldemort whispered, and Bellatrix giggled as she asked,

"The crack in the wall at my parents' house?"

"No, little thing. The one here. In this room." He rubbed at his forehead, and Bellatrix took a steadying breath as a little wave of inexplicable happiness came over her. All of a sudden it was as though she were surrounded by a bed of sweet-smelling flowers, like the air she was breathing was pumping beauty into her veins.

"I love you," she heard herself whisper, and she felt Voldemort reach for her hand. He squeezed it a little, and Bellatrix felt a little pulse of want for him. She edged closer to him and felt his fingers pulling up on the hem of her dress. They'd already had sex once today, in his father's house. That felt like eons ago. Suddenly she wondered if Tom Riddle, Sr. had ever had sex in that house, in that chair.

"They moved to London," he heard Voldemort murmur. "It was a scandal in Little Hangleton, that the filthy girl from the shack had somehow convinced the wealthy Riddle boy to marry her. So they moved to London."

"Did he leave her because she was a witch?" Bellatrix asked. It seemed to take forever for her to get an answer, but finally she heard Voldemort murmur,

"I think so. Now you know why I was so harsh with you, that first birthday of mine when you came to Malfoy Manor."

Bellatrix could remember the way he'd searched her mind for evidence that she'd been tricking him, that she'd dosed him with a love potion or something more sinister. It did make sense now. He hadn't wanted to be a victim of lies like his father had been.

"I wanted you... so, so badly," she heard him whisper. "It didn't seem like it could be genuine. But it was. It was."

Bellatrix felt tears boil in her eyes then, for there was something tragic in his voice. She turned to look at him and found that his eyes were already locked on her. Did she look as glazed as he did? She reached for his face and stroked at his scruff, and she informed him,

"I'm afraid of you."

He laughed a little, covering her hand with his and shutting his eyes. She watched him fall asleep, and she almost went with him, for she could feel the way his mind had turned right off. But then he blinked his eyes open again and said,

"Pretty. Pretty little thing. So pretty."

She nudged even closer to him and asked, "Shall I use my mouth on you?"

He snorted a little laugh and admitted, "I don't want sex. Not right now."

Bellatrix felt hurt, like she'd offended him with her body, and she started to pull away. But Voldemort cradled her tightly against him and whispered,

"Just want to feel you, that's all."

She let him do that, and she felt him right back. Warm and big. Smelled like leather and metal. She breathed him in and pressed her lips to the base of his neck, and she heard him talk, his voice seeming to come from somewhere very far away.

"I'm going to bring my mother back."

Bellatrix didn't know what he meant by that, so she said nothing. She felt herself nod off a little, and she snuggled more tightly against him. He was so comfortable, like the warm spot in a bed hours before morning came. She heard him murmur a little more urgently,

"Once I can use the Resurrection Stone, I'm going to test it by bringing back Merope Gaunt."

"All right," Bellatrix whispered against his skin. His fingers were pulling her dress up again then, and she found herself with his cock inside of her somehow. She laced her leg over his hip and ground against him, their bodies meshed side to side as they moved slowly. Neither of them would come like this, but it didn't really matter. It felt good anyway.

"Your mother?" Bellatrix heard her voice say. She raised her eyes to his, and he kissed her so delicately that she almost melted against him. She couldn't help thinking at him, Why do you want to meet your mother?

"It isn't as though she died on purpose," Voldemort said simply, and for some reason that seemed like a logical and sufficient answer. Bellatrix stopped moving, and so did he, and after awhile his cock went soft inside of her. Neither of them moved; they stayed completely tangled like that as each of them drifted off to sleep.

They hadn't showered, not even after the long and complicated trip to Little Hangleton. They weren't in pyjamas. There were no blankets covering them. They hadn't even eaten dinner. But Bellatrix slept quite soundly all through the night, lying there on the spare bed with her husband.

In the morning, she woke before he did and finally, with a sober mind, registered what he'd said. She stared at his sleeping face, thinking to herself that it did make plenty of sense for him to want to see even a wispy shadow of who his mother had been. And she understood, too, why he'd wanted the Dragon's Breath to discuss the matter. After a day like theyd had, exploring the haunts of the family members he'd killed, she could hardly begrudge him a few hours' intoxication.

Bellatrix sighed and pulled her limbs from his, rising carefully from the bed and trying not to wake him. She walked across the landing and into their bathroom, stripping off her dirty clothes and climbing into the shower. She was rinsing her hair when she heard Voldemort's voice ask,

"What time is the meeting at Malfoy Manor?"

Bellatrix raked her fingers through her curls and said simply, "Ten-thirty, My Lord."

There was a long silence, and she could see through the glass as he leaned against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. "Right. Hurry up, will you? I'm filthy."

* * *

Archer's Edge

2 October 1975

"My Lord, would you like me to go wait somewhere else in the castle?"

"No." He turned the Gaunt ring over and over in his hand, shaking his head and flicking his eyes to Bellatrix. "No. Stay here, will you?"

"Of course." Bellatrix crossed the parlour to where he stood. She stood before him, taking his scruffy jaw in her hand and bringing herself up to meet him. She pressed her lips to his and murmured, "I adore you, My Lord."

"Mmm. Go stand over there, little thing. Just in case." He gestured off to his right, and as Bellatrix walked away, he turned the ring round and round again. He thought of his mother, of the glimpses of her he'd seen in the minds of his uncle Morfin and his father. He saw her drawn, sad-looking face, her dull black hair. He thought her name over and over. Merope Gaunt. Merope Gaunt. He wrenched his eyes shut and squeezed the ring, feeling the pulse of its Horcrux magic seeping into his flesh as he did.

Suddenly he heard Bellatrix gasp, and he opened his eyes and nearly dropped the ring. She was there, right there before him, looking very nearly as solid and real as a living person. Her edges were blurred a bit, like someone had painted her into life, and her colours were washed out like an antique photograph. But she was there, black-haired and sunken-eyed and much smaller that he would have imagined.

"Merope Gaunt?" Voldemort asked hesitantly. The witch before him took a step forward, her dull eyes brightening a little as she whispered,

"Tom? You look... different."

Voldemort cleared his throat roughly, ignoring the sudden and unwelcome burn in his eyes as he barked at the witch, "I'm your son."

"My son." She stepped closer, and Voldemort resisted the urge to back away. She reached up, but it was as if some invisible but powerful veil existed between them. She couldn't touch him, he could tell. She wanted to. He could tell that, too. Her eyes glimmered with tears, and her ethereal voice trembled as she asked, "Tom Marvolo Riddle?"

He just nodded. It wasn't worth an argument with his mother's shade about the semantics of a name. A wide smile broke over Merope's face, and she noted happily,

"You grew into such a handsome man."

"Why did you do it?" Voldemort demanded, and when Merope looked confused, he clarified through clenched teeth, "Why did you trick him into marrying you?"

Merope's face sobered, and she lowered her face as she said, "It's complicated."

"Hmm." Voldemort sniffed lightly and informed her, "I spent my childhood in that wretched orphanage where you died. Until I went off to Hogwarts."

"Hogwarts." Merope raised her eyes and smiled again. "You went to Hogwarts. And this girl... this pretty girl... is she your daughter?"

She gestured toward Bellatrix, her arm moving like it was submerged in water. Bellatrix's mouth fell open, and she told the shade of Merope Gaunt,

"I'm his wife."

"Wife," Merope breathed. She took a few steps toward Bellatrix, who seemed acutely unnerved despite spending years of her life in the daily presence of ghosts. This wasn't a ghost. This was something more sinister, and Bellatrix could tell. Merope reached for Bellatrix's face, but the unseen veil stopped her again. The two witches were nearly equal in size; they both reached around Voldemort's shoulder and were stick-thin. Merope had been nineteen when she'd died, so she looked like a contemporary of Bellatrix's. That, too, was unsettling for Voldemort. He turned his face away a little and let out a shaking breath, and he heard Merope ask Bellatrix,

"Have you any children?"

"No," Bellatrix said simply. "But he makes me very happy, and I try my best to do the same. He loves me, and I love him. Really and truly."

Voldemort stared at the shade of his mother again. She seemed to have been lulled into a blissful sort of trance by what Bellatrix had said. She started to whisper something unintelligible, her head tipped back and her eyes shut. Finally she returned her gaze to Voldemort, and she asked cautiously,

"What became of him? Of your father?"

"My Lord..." Bellatrix's voice had warning in it, but Voldemort paid her no mind.

"I killed him," he said simply. Merope's face flashed oddly, and she rushed back across the rug to stare up at her son's face. Her expression shifted; her chalk-white face twisted into hurt and anger, and she whispered,

"You're lying."

"No. I'm not." Voldemort turned the ring over in his hand again and told Merope, "I went to find out what sort of beginning my life had had, and I did not much care for what I discovered. He disgusted me, and so I killed him."

"My Lord..." Bellatrix was at his side then, and Merope demanded,

"Why does she call you that, if she is your loving wife? Tell me you do not force her to say -"

"You could never possibly understand," Voldemort hissed, lowering his face toward the shade of his mother, "because your life consisted of being knocked about and mocked until you fed a Muggle a poison to make him put his cock in you. And then you squeezed me out and you promptly dropped dead."

"My Lord!" Bellatrix reached for his elbow, but he shoved her away much more roughly than he'd intended. She lost her balance and fell to the ground, and Merope bent down as she cried up to her son,

"Tell me you're not the sort of loveless beast he was!"

"Far worse, I'm afraid," Voldemort snarled. He watched as Merope desperately tried to help Bellatrix off the ground, but again she was blocked by the unseen barrier between the living and the dead. Bellatrix heaved herself to her feet, brushing her hands over her skirts and clearing her throat as she murmured to Merope that she was fine.

"This was a mistake," Voldemort noted, dragging his left fingertips over his jaw. "Bringing you here. I ought to have brought Yaxley. Or Lestrange, either of them. But not you."

"Tom..." Merope's voice was almost soothing then, like she was finally trying to mother her child. She stood before her son and stared helplessly up at his face. "Tom."

He shook his head and took one last look at his mother as he said simply, "I am Lord Voldemort."

Then he dropped the ring to the ground and shut his eyes, banishing the shade of Merope Gaunt from his presence.

* * *

Archer's Edge

3 October 1975

"Where did you put it?" Bellatrix stared at the ceiling as Voldemort climbed into the bed beside her. It was nearly one in the morning now; it seemed like an eternity ago that they'd pulled the ring from the copper cauldron and Vanished the cursed coins.

"It's buried beneath the monument at Yaxley's and Rabastan Lestrange's gravesite," Voldemort said simply. "That way, it's close by should I ever need it, but far enough away that I don't feel it. The Horcrux."

Bellatrix hesitated and swallowed hard before she said, "It wasn't a mistake, My Lord. You don't make mistakes."

For a long while, he did not answer. Bellatrix finally curled herself up against him and whispered that she loved him, and he whispered something quiet in return. She was already lost to sleep by then. She dreamed of flying, of soaring with him over rivers and mountains. They were laughing. They were happy.

But when she woke a few hours later, she found him almost entirely nonverbal as he moved about readying himself for the day. He grunted his assent when she informed him that Abraxas Malfoy had a breakfast meeting with them to discuss the upcoming diplomatic visit from a French delegation. He silently showered and cleaned his teeth and pulled on heavy, sombre black robes. Then he made his way downstairs to his office, leaving Bellatrix half-dressed.

They waited for Abraxas in the dining-room, and as Bellatrix stared at Voldemort across the table, he picked at the tablecloth and scowled.

"My Lord," she finally said carefully, "It's quite evident that something is wrong."

"Is it?" His voice was hoarse and distant, and Bellatrix sighed.

"Your Minister of Magic will be concerned, My Lord."

"Hmm." He sat up a bit straighter and feigned a look of interest in his gaze. Bakky finally came ambling into the dining-room with Abraxas Malfoy in tow. Neither Bellatrix nor Voldemort rose; they did not owe Malfoy such a courtesy. He bowed deeply and sat in the chair that Voldemort wandlessly pulled out for him. Breakfast quickly appeared on the table; it was sausage and eggs and toast with orange juice. Nothing fancy, but this was a business meeting, not a meal out. Bellatrix chatted aimlessly with Malfoy as they ate, and she noticed that Voldemort didn't touch his food. He Vanished it after a while, and he flat-out interrupted Malfoy in the middle of a story about Cerda getting new curtains for the Manor.

"When are the French coming?"

Malfoy looked surprised at the way Voldemort had so sharply interjected. He set down his fork and knife and stammered,

"Erm... they... they said right around Halloween, My Lord, if you're amenable."

"Where are they staying?" Voldemort demanded, and Bellatrix licked her lip carefully as she said in the most patient voice she could muster,

"That's what we just discussing, My Lord. Minister Malfoy says he and his wife are quite happy to host the delegation at Malfoy Manor. I thought perhaps you and I might stay in our suite there during the visit, so that everyone is close."

"Yes. All right. Fine." Voldemort swigged at his orange juice and set down the empty glass. He folded his hands on the table and said, "Malfoy, once a firm itenerary has been worked out, send to it to me. I've no interest in the visit until then."

Malfoy glanced anxiously at Bellatrix, and she assured him,

"I'll be in communication with the French Ministry and get a schedule clarified. I'll give a copy to the Dark Lord as soon as I have it, and of course I'll send one to you, Minister."

"Thank you, My Lady." Malfoy stared at his half-eaten plate of food for a moment and then suggested,

"If there's nothing else you need from me, Master... perhaps I might let you go about the rest of your day?"

"Go." Voldemort waved his hand dismissively, and Malfoy stood from his chair. He bowed quite deeply again and murmured a few platitudes, and he hissed at the House-Elf in the corridor that he could show himself out. Bellatrix glared across the table and waited for the sound of the castle's main door opening and shutting again.

"My Lord, with all due respect," she hissed, "you can't behave like that in front of your -"

"I can do whatever I damned well please, and you know it," Voldemort snarled. He rose from his chair and stalked quickly around the table. He grabbed and Bellatrix's wrist and heaved her out of his chair, and she felt his other hand pull her tightly against him by the small of her back. She tried to pull her wrist away from him, but he said angrily,

"I am Lord Voldemort. If I want to be rude to my Minister, I will be. If I want to ignore my breakfast, I will. Who do you think you are to defy me?"

Bellatrix shook her head helplessly. She understood. She did. It had deeply disturbed him to see the shade of Merope Gaunt. He regretted bringing her back, even for a few moments. And just now he needed to recalibrate exactly who he was. So she pulled her wrist from his hand again, mewling softly when he tightened his grip. She didn't fight him at all when he slammed her down onto the dining room table, sending the china and crystal tumbling to the floor and making an enormous mess of orange juice all over the tablecloth. She just stared at the ceiling, mute and still on purpose as he yanked up the hem of her simple black dress.

She heard him mutter a lubrication charm, and she shut her eyes for a moment as he thrust himself into her body in one fluid motion. He pinned both of her wrists against the mussed tablecloth, and she instinctively wrapped her legs around his waist as he began to pump his hips.

"Look at me!" His voice was harsh, unforgiving and gravelly, but when she opened her eyes and met his, she saw a very vulnerable man. She swallowed hard and said to him,

"You can do whatever you want, My Lord. All of wizarding Britain bows to you, and... ahhh! Once the French come, they'll probably bow, too. Oh. Oh, My Lord."

She wasn't faking her arousal then, for he was pistoning himself so quickly and deeply that she couldn't help but be stimulated. She arched her back up, and one of his hands released a wrist and flew beneath her. He helped her sit up, and the dining-room table creaked wildly as he jerked himself harder than ever into her body. Bellatrix burrowed her face into the crook of his neck and cried out as she came, feeling his hands all over her then. He was kissing her curls, pulling her back and touching his lips to hers. He was twitching inside of her, and she could feel the little burst of energy in him as he found his own climax. His mouth rested against her neck as he panted and moaned softly, and Bellatrix whispered breathlessly,

"Your life is here. With me. You reign here and now. You're Lord Voldemort, and you can do whatever makes you happy."

"You make me happy, Bella," he assured her. He finally pulled his face away from her neck and looked a little regretful as he asked her, "Send an owl to Abraxas Malfoy, will you? Tell him I was feeling unwell and that you apologise for my rudeness."

"You don't have to apologise to him, My Lord," Bellatrix said, and he quirked up half his mouth as he shrugged.

"All right, then. Don't send the owl."


	3. Chapter 3

_Archer's Edge_

 _5 October 1975_

"My Lord?"

Bellatrix stepped into his office, and Voldemort set his quill down and pulled his glasses off. She'd be staring curiously at the book from Croatia, he knew. He'd felt compelled to write in it. Just four words: _I resurrected my mother_. Voldemort dug his fists into his eyes, and Bellatrix said knowingly,

"You didn't sleep a wink last night."

"If I kept you awake, I apologise," he said tightly. He shut the book and tucked it away in its warded drawer. He kept his spectacles off, but when he stared up at Bellatrix, she was completely blurry. He wanted to growl in frustration at the way his vision had been the last bastion of degradation, but he reminded himself once more that he'd apparently been born with lousy eyes. They'd told him so at Hogwarts.

"Did you need something?" His voice sounded stern and harsh to his own ears as he reached for the glasses and shoved them onto his face. He blinked as Bellatrix came into focus. She handed him a long piece of parchment and said gravely,

"This just came from Malabit Rowle."

Voldemort took the paper, frowning at the severe style of penmanship Rowle had used in the letter.

 _To The Dark Lord, copied to Minister Malfoy:_

 _A few hours ago, an Auror investigating a report of resistance in Cork was murdered by a Muggle-born. The rogue wizard, one Conor O'Sullivan, shot the Auror dead with a Muggle rifle and absconded before the other Auror could apprehend him._

 _There is reason to believe that O'Sullivan has been working in cooperation with other resistors. We have had Irish Auror Laoise Keough working undercover, disguised, for some time in Ireland. O'Sullivan was on a list of names found in Keough's pocket when she was discovered dead this morning in Dublin, also the victim of a Muggle gunshot._

 _Until the situation in Ireland has been thoroughly evaluated and controlled, I strongly recommend that the diplomatic visit from the French Ministry be postponed._

 _As always, I remain your loyal servant._

 _Malabit Rowle, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement_

Voldemort crumpled his hands a bit around the outside of the parchment and snarled up at Bellatrix,

"Ireland. Muggle guns. What the blazes is going on?"

Bellatrix shrugged. "You remember what we saw in Russia. When they used Muggle guns for executions. It was so fast… how could magic properly fend it off if it came unexpected?"

"I thought you trained Laoise Keough yourself," Voldemort growled, and Bellatrix nodded patiently.

"I did. I taught her how to kill without questioning herself, how to torture perfectly. I never taught her how to dodge a bullet. I wouldn't know how myself."

"This is not the sort of battle setting into which we can just barrel recklessly," Voldemort pointed out. "None of my Death Eaters are equipped to deal with Muggle firearms, including you. Frankly… including me. I could stop a bullet, I think, but… I'd rather not find out."

Bellatrix nodded. "Will you send for the Minister?"

Voldemort chewed his lip and considered his options. Finally he raised his eyes to Bellatrix and announced,

"Ambushes."

Bellatrix raised her eyebrows with surprise, and Voldemort clarified,

"No more sneaking into houses of suspected defectors in the middle of the night. We get a name, an address? We ambush it. From above."

"So you mean to… establish a sort of air force?" Bellatrix asked sceptically. "What, have your Death Eaters set fire to a house from an overhead broomstick?"

"No." Voldemort shook his head. "I mean to have you and I blow the houses up, blow them to smithereens, whilst flying unassisted. And then we Disapparate from midair."

Bellatrix's mouth fell open, and she seemed genuinely surprised by that suggestion. But she swallowed hard and nodded and said,

"I can write back to Malabit Rowle at once. Ask for all the names and addresses that Laoise Keough had amassed before she was killed. Shall I write to the French to delay their visit."

"No," Voldemort said firmly, shaking his head. "That will make us look weak and disorganized. They're not coming for twenty-five days. That's plenty of time for us to conduct raids and put down all this rebellious nonsense."

Bellatrix didn't look entirely convinced, but she nodded and started to walk away.

"Bella."

She turned round at the sound of her name, and Voldemort just studied her for a moment. She was so pretty, looking younger and more innocent than ever. She was the farthest thing from innocent, of course, but she looked it just the same. Voldemort stared into her eyes, wanting her badly but overcoming the sensation enough to nod and send her on her way.

* * *

 _Tuam, Co. Galway, Ireland_

 _7 October 1975_

"There are three of them in there," Voldemort murmured. Bellatrix hovered in the cold night air, studying Voldemort's face as he reached out with Legilimency to feel the presence of souls in the whitewashed cottage below them. He nodded firmly and said, "O'Sullivan. His wife. The wife's mother."

"Collateral damage, then," Bellatrix pointed out. "The wife is a Half-Blood; her mother's Pureblood."

"They're harbouring a Mudblood who killed an Auror," Voldemort barked. "Death comes for all traitors."

"As you command, My Lord," Bellatrix nodded. She aimed her wand down toward the house, and Voldemort hesitated for a moment.

"You know, I'd like another hundred vertical metres," he said cautiously. "Come on up; we'll just need good aim."

She soared upward after him, settling a good half kilometre above the house. She could just barely make out its outline from here, but she knew why Voldemort had wanted to get so high up. There would be all manner of detritus and damage from this explosion; the last thing either of them needed was a limb full of shrapnel.

"Ready?" Voldemort called out over the wind, and Bellatrix nodded. She aimed her wand downward, centring the point of it on the roof of the cottage. She could just barely hear his voice then as he cried, "Three… two… one… _CONFRINGO_!"

Bellatrix screamed the spell in unison with him, and twin orange streams of light rocketed downward toward the cottage. The spells hit the cottage almost simultaneously, and it exploded with such violence that Bellatrix had to shut her eyes against the light and heat. The roof was decimated; three of the walls collapsed. Objects from inside the house flew in every direction, and the ruins simmered and burned. Bellatrix gave it a long moment and then pointed her wand downward again.

" _Homenum Revelio."_

She received nothing in response to that spell, and when she met Voldemort's eyes through the night air, he nodded and affirmed,

"They're dead. I feel nothing. Let's go."

She floated over to him, clasping his left hand in hers and staring straight into his eyes. She was tempted to kiss him, for some reason. His eyes gleamed in the orange light from below, and she could sense hunger washing off of him like an ocean wave. Suddenly she was wrenched from the air, pinched and whirled through a thin black tunnel as he took her with him by Side-Along Apparition.

They came to in their bedroom at Archer's Edge, and Bellatrix spluttered a little as she fell to her knees. Voldemort helped her up, crushing her mouth with his at once as he backed her up toward the bed.

"My Lord," she whispered desperately, reaching for the buttons that ran down the front of his robes. "Mmmph. Please take me. Please."

She couldn't explain the buzz in her mind, the wet between her legs. All she knew was that she needed him, badly and right now. He seemed to share her sentiments, for he bent to kiss her again and informed her,

"I'm not going to stop. So don't expect me to stop."

This would be one of those times, Bellatrix knew, where his magic ran away from him and he lost a bit of control over his body. She'd always gladly put up with the lack of control, but tonight she craved it. She wanted him to plunder her roughly from behind, to shove his cock down her throat, to slowly make love to her. She wanted him to wash her hair in the shower; she wanted him to slam her against the tile wall and suckle her breast until she cried. She wanted all of it and more, and she sent every bit of permission she could from her mind into his.

He growled like a feral animal, shoving her hard onto the bed and tearing her tunic up and over her head and shoulders. Suddenly Bellatrix could feel the Blasting Curses shooting from their wands in harmony. She could hear the explosion, could feel the heat from the flames. Her ears whistled with the howl of the cold night wind above Tuam.

And in that moment, she didn't think she had any more control over herself than Voldemort had over himself. Perhaps it was dangerous, she thought distantly, that the two of them had become so animalistic in the wake of their mutually enjoyed destruction. It didn't matter; neither of them could stop it now.

So she kissed him back, so hard that she could feel her lips bruising, and her fingers flew to the buttons on his trousers. They would both be sore and tired by morning, she knew, but that thought just made her more excited than ever. Before she knew what was happening, he'd stripped down to a single linen shirt and his open trousers, and he'd wrenched off her leggings and tunic. He snatched at her knickers and yanked them down over her legs, throwing them aside and roughly spinning Bellatrix onto her belly.

She moaned against the coverlet as he dragged his fingertips around her soaked entrance for a moment. He pushed himself into her unceremoniously and began fucking her at once, his hips moving like a machine as he groaned her name a few times.

Bellatrix lay her head sideways and felt drool trickle from between her lips. She fisted the blankets to try and steady herself against the rough, constant thrusting. Her clit rubbed mercilessly against the textured coverlet as Voldemort plundered her, and soon enough she found herself whining against the fabric. She pounded a fist helplessly and felt Voldemort's hands tighten. There was a sudden smack on her backside, which just drove her closer to the edge.

"Again," she heard herself beg hoarsely. "Please. Again."

Voldemort smacked her harder the second time, and then he was spanking her so steadily and harshly that Bellatrix couldn't think. Her skin was hot and sensitive beneath his swinging hand, and he sped up his hips somehow. She came with an almost inconceivable, breathless sort of bliss washing over her. She could feel her body clenching around his cock, could feel him groaning as he pumped his seed into her as the feel of her pleasure drove him straight to his own.

They made love quietly twice on the bed, once with him hovering about her and whispering about how beautiful she was, and another time with him spooned behind her whilst they both thought about what had happened in Ireland. They took a long, luxurious-feeling shower that turned into quite a lot of kissing and soapy hands drifting over one another's skin. That, in turn, morphed into Bellatrix behind Levitated just so until she could wrap herself securely around Voldemort and he could drill her against the shower wall. There was a little more washing then, and they staggered out into the bedroom again, wet and naked and more than a little tangled up.

"Are you sore?" Voldemort asked, and Bellatrix shook her head insistently. She was sore, actually. More than a little sore. But she wanted him so badly. Voldemort cocked up an eyebrow at her and reached to touch between her legs. Bellatrix stifled a hiss of pain as his fingertips touched her tender flesh, but he tutted,

"Don't lie to me, little thing. _Allevio_."

The tenderness went away, but Bellatrix could tell that Voldemort was spent. Even with these wild instances of his magic gone awry, he could only take so much… especially with his forty-ninth birthday looming perilously.

"I hardly think that finishing four times in an hour qualifies as anything to be pitied, Bellatrix," Voldemort said tightly, and she realised her thoughts had been a little too clear to him then. She smirked up at him and nodded.

"It's me who's insatiable this time. Sorry."

He threaded his fingers through hers and pulled her up onto the bed, tucking the blankets around them and whispering,

"My beautiful, vicious little thing."

"Shall I write to Malfoy?" Bellatrix asked, gasping when his hand reached around her hips and made its way between her legs. She tipped her head back and felt his lips on her neck, and she asked again, "Should I send an owl to Malfoy or to Rowle? Let them know what's happened?"

"In the morning," Voldemort growled. "They're both asleep anyway. It can wait until the morning. This can't."

Bellatrix could scarcely argue then, for the pads of his fingers were working just so to cycle and press on her in a way that made her arch her back and reach desperately for his forearm.

"Come for me, little thing." His breath was warm near her ear, shaking and warm and perfect. "One more time."

"I… can't…" Bellatrix felt exhausted, like her body was hungry but had no room left to eat. She turned her head to complain again and found herself caught up in a rough kiss. He dragged his tongue over the roof of her mouth, his fingers deepening their motions as he thought right at her,

 _Come for me, Bella._

 _Yes, My Lord,_ she thought distantly, feeling a gentle, easy climax roll over her. She clamped around his fingers, and he kissed her straight through it, both of them moaning a little as the sensation swelled and then subsided. Finally Voldemort pulled his fingers away from Bellatrix's body, pulled his lips from hers, and whispered,

"You did well in Ireland. You're always unbearably beautiful in battle; I can hardly stand to look at you when you're like that."

"It wasn't exactly a battle," Bellatrix pointed out, rolling to face him. "Not as though they were fighting back."

His eyes hardened. "They've turned to shooting our Aurors with Muggle firearms, and we're meant to engage in duels with them?"

"No." Bellatrix shook her head vehemently and reached to brush her knuckles over his scruffy jaw. "No, My Lord. Your enemies deserve precisely no mercy. No second chances. No quick, easy deaths. I hope they were on fire tonight, all of them, burning because they were disobedient to you. Because they did not worship you as you are meant to be worshipped."

His eyes flashed a little at that, and he pulled her hand from his face and brought her knuckles to his lips.

"How on Earth was I meant to keep from falling in love with you?" He was just wondering aloud, she knew; the question hadn't been directed to anyone in particular. But she turned up half her mouth and said quietly,

"I love you, too, My Lord. More than the night loves the moon."

* * *

 _Archer's Edge_

 _11 October 1975_

"My… My Lord?"

Voldemort glanced up from a letter he was writing to Avery. He cocked up an eyebrow and asked tightly,

"Yes?"

Bellatrix stepped cautiously into his office, clutching a parchment in her hand. He could feel anxiety rolling off of her in mighty waves. Her voice shook like mad as she said,

"Minister Adelise Tessier of France is waiting for you at Malfoy Manor."

Voldemort dropped his quill. He couldn't have heard her correctly. He shook his head and shrugged. "Whatever could you mean?"

Bellatrix gestured to the parchment in her hand and said, "Abraxas Malfoy writes that she arrived in cognito at the Ministry Headquarters this morning. He took her to Malfoy Manor and wrote at once. She wants to speak with you. Alone."

"And just who is the French Minister of Magic to come showing up on my doorstep and making demands?" Voldemort snarled, rising quickly to his feet. When Bellatrix did not answer, he added, "They're meant to be here on a visit in a few weeks. Why would she come alone, unannounced?"

Bellatrix stared at him then as though he were a bit daft, and he knew why. He adjusted his glasses on his face, sniffed lightly, and instructed her,

"Get yourself into battle attire and be completely ready to come to my side the instant I Summon you."

"Yes, My Lord." Bellatrix took a step away from him, and on instinct, Voldemort took her cheeks in his hands and kissed her briefly before storming over to the coat rack. He pulled off the heavy, elegant cloak she'd made for him, wrapping it around his shoulders and doing up the clasp. He pulled the Elder Wand from his robes and touched at his tie bar, nodding once before he Disapparated.

When he came to in the foyer of Malfoy Manor, he could hear quiet talking upstairs. He padded quickly up the marble staircase and strode with long steps down the corridor that led to the dining-room they used for meetings. Abraxas Malfoy and his wife Cerda were in there, along with a tall, almost blindingly pretty blonde witch. Voldemort frowned with surprise; Tessier didn't look a day over thirty. This was the French Minister?

"My Lord." Abraxas Malfoy and Cerda descended into deep gestures of servitude, but Adelise Tessier tipped her chin up and seemed to be studying each of Voldemort's features.

"Thank you, Malfoy. You and Cerda are dismissed." Voldemort kept his eyes locked on Tessier's vibrant blue gaze as the Malfoys scurried out of the room. Voldemort wandlessly slammed all the doors shut and warded them, sending an annoying buzz out into the corridors to drown out their conversation. Tessier smirked and straightened the knee-length skirt of her plum-coloured robes.

"Very impressive," she said, a little too sarcastically. She gestured to the table and suggested, "May we sit?"

Voldemort slid into a chair at the head of the table, forcing Adelise Tessier to take one of the side chairs. She folded her hands neatly on the wood and studied him again. It was more than a little unnerving, so Voldemort cleared his throat and shoved his glasses up his nose as he said,

"I had intended on formally welcoming you to Britain at the end of this month, Minister Tessier."

"Not a problem," she replied smoothly. "The British Minister for Magic has already welcomed me."

Suddenly Voldemort understood. He put his lips into a line, drummed his fingers on the table, and reminded Adelise Tessier,

"I received a letter of support, signed by your predecessor, pledging France as an ally in all matters diplomatic and economic."

"Hmm. Yes. Minister Bayeux did a great many things with which I did not agree," Tessier said. "When I was installed as Minister last month, it was because there was great discontent with the company kept by Minister Bayeux."

"And what sort of company was that?" Voldemort snapped. It was annoying, he decided, that such a thorn in the side as Tessier had to have such a disarming face. He turned away a little as she mused,

"He did so enjoy his frequent trips to Russia, to spend time with Sokolov. But rumor has it that Sokolov himself will soon be out. His own people despise his hardline stance against the non-Magical."

Voldemort smirked and nodded. Now he understood better than ever. "And what is France's current stance regarding the non-Magical."

Adelise Tessier leaned forward a little where she sat. She blinked a few times and pushed her blonde hair from her eyes, and she finally said, "Sixty-three refugees."

Voldemort narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth to ask for clarification, but Tessier continued,

"Muggle-borns. Their spouses. Their children. Sixty-three of them that disappeared from your traces? We have them, living comfortably in France. And we will keep them safe. They will be welcome in our schools, in our shops, in our government. Perhaps you did not know, Mister Voldemort, but I myself am the child of Muggles. And I love them very dearly."

Voldemort felt bile rise in his throat, and he hissed, "I think you can go ahead back to France. No need to return at Halloween."

Of course, he realised at once, this was all becoming a very large mess very quickly. They'd already hyped up the trip from the French delegation; the paper had run articles and the inner circle had been invited to a grand ball honoring the esteemed guests. Voldemort felt a little dizzy as Adelise Tessier continued relentlessly,

"Your own Aurors - who are meant to fight Dark Magic, not display it - are gunned down in Ireland with Muggle weaponry. Yes. We know about that. And just who are you, anyway? You have a Ministry. You have a Minister of Magic. So who are you?"

"I am the one leading this nation back to a straight path of righteousness!" Voldemort cried, flying to his feet and looming over Adelise Tessier. He felt his magic crackle in the air around him. She looked unfazed and scoffed quietly up at him.

"No. You are no ideological zealot. You are a power-hungry child. No better than the Muggle Russian tsar or the French Muggle King. And you saw what happened to them. Despots are most usually deposed, Mister Voldemort."

She was twisting his title to taunt him, and suddenly Voldemort found himself jabbing the end of his wand against her throat.

"Careful now," Tessier warned him, her wide blue eyes looking completely unafraid. "You assassinate the French Minister in your own Minister's house? Do you really want a global war where your closest ally is on the verge of being toppled himself? Why don't you call your wife here, your most gifted diplomat, and ask her if she thinks it is wise for you to have your wand against my throat right now?"

Voldemort felt a sudden press against his mind. Bellatrix. She could feel that he was on the edge of killing. She was trying to pull him back, trying to soothe him. He pushed her away but managed to step back from Tessier. He lowered his wand and said in a dangerous growl,

"Wizarding Britain makes no quarter for Mudbloods. We certainly do not honour Mudbloods, nor allow them into government matters. From this day until the day France finds its morality again, we are enemies. I will make no move of war against your nation, nor shall we exhibit an ounce of friendship. And what you do with those sixty-three traitors is of precisely no matter to me. Now get your filthy Mudblood soul out of Britain, or I will gladly pay the consequences of assassinating a foreign Minister."

Adelise Tessier rose slowly from her chair and nodded as she walked past Voldemort. She paused at the door, turned over her shoulder, and said,

"I'll have Minister Malfoy show me out. Good day."

* * *

 _Wasdale, Lake District_

 _11 October, 1975_

"Please stop."

Bellatrix strode across the moor, wincing as Voldemort roared and bought a massive boulder tumbling down the sheer hillside. It rolled and crashed into a few twiggy evergreens, and Bellatrix crossed her arms as she beseeched him again,

"Stop. This isn't helping anything."

"Bellatrix, I don't think I've said anything like this to you before, but get the fuck away from me." Voldemort slashed his wand angrily through the air, and a huge Blasting Curse blew a crater into the ground a few dozen yards away. Bellatrix felt frustration go through her veins, and she cried,

"We don't have time for this! There are meetings to be held, political stances to be rewritten!"

"Then go rewrite them with the Minister," Voldemort snapped. He threw another Blasting Curse at the ground farther away, and another crater opened up, sending soil and rocks flying. Bellatrix shrieked in irritated agitation.

"You are behaving like a child!"

"A child?" He turned on her, and suddenly Bellatrix was very afraid he was going to hex her or worse. She staggered backward a few steps, and he aimed his shaking wand at her as he repeated, "A child! A power-hungry child, is that it?"

Bellatrix's heart raced in her chest as he neared her. She tipped her head up defiantly and informed him, "What do you care about her insults? She's Mudblood scum; she came here with no invitation just so she could dismantle the relationship between two of the most powerful wizarding nations in Europe. Why do you care what she thinks of you?"

Voldemort's throat bobbed as a frigid rain began to fall around them. He lowered his wand, his face quickly running with streams of rainwater, and he asked seriously,

"In your diplomatic opinion, Bella, what are the odds that my own people depose me?"

"Nil." Bellatrix shook her head. "You're dealing with scattered militants in Ireland, across a sea and in minuscule numbers. Your Aurors, your Death Eaters, and you and I are willing to use any means necessary to suppress that tiny hint of dissidence. Surviving traitors fled the country seeking a new home. Sokolov is a psychotic monster both privately and publicly. You are my husband, and I love you, and your people adore you. You should sever all ties with France, do an interview for the paper on the matter, and host a Halloween ball for the inner circle. The witches will have all had new gowns made. At the ball, you can joke and poke fun at the fact that France can't find its way to a respectable government, Muggle or Magical. And then you dance with me and you is me in front of everyone, and you shake hands and you smile. And they love you for it. That's what happens now."

She was breathless after all that, and also freezing cold in the rain that was falling harder than ever onto the moor around them. Voldemort took a few steps to close the gap between them, and he took her face in his hands. The Elder Wand pressed lengthwise against her cheek, and his dark eyes bored down into hers. He was thinking that he loved her, that he needed her, that everything would be fine. But he said nothing; he just lowered his face and crushed his mouth against hers.

Bellatrix kissed him back for all she was worth, breathing him in and silently reassuring him that he was everything to her, that wizarding Britain lay at his feet, that France meant nothing. She kissed him and she shivered in his arms, soaked to the bone and suddenly not caring at all.

* * *

 _Malfoy Manor_

 _31 October 1975_

"Bella? Ha! I barely recognised you with that mask." Narcissa came striding up to Bellatrix, who laughed a little and teased her sister,

"What, the wild hair didn't give me away?"

"All right. It did, a little." Narcissa sipped at her dark, dry red wine, her own milky white lace mask just barely concealing her eyes. She cocked up a blonde eyebrow and admitted, "I could tell it was you from halfway across the room. Lucius says I didn't follow the rules."

"Well, the rules said a mask. You do have a mask on. Sort of." Bellatrix sipped from her own tumbler of firewhiskey, feeling as though her relationship with her sister had been drastically improved by the recent lack of miscarriages. And whether or not she'd followed the rules for the masked ball, Narcissa did look quite pretty. She had a powder blue gown on that glittered and shone as she walked, and the white of her mask was matched by endless layers of pearls around her neck. Lucius probably thought his wife was very beautiful tonight.

Bellatrix didn't have to wonder if her husband thought she was beautiful. She could feel him in her mind, staring at her across the Malfoys' ballroom. He very much liked the way her wispy black gown, made almost entirely of lightweight tulle, showed shadows of her legs and the gentle lines of her arms. He liked the way her torso was carefully ensconced in aggressive, tight-fitting black leather, the way that leather had been stitched in with metallic silver roses. He liked that she'd worn her hair down, pulled back from her face with a large black velvet rose decoration. He liked the way her black mask, also of wispy tulle, had been bound around her features like a blindfold instead of the feminine lace concoctions the other witches wore. She looked powerful tonight, so she felt powerful tonight, and Lord Voldemort liked that.

"Bella," Narcissa whispered, snapping Bellatrix back to the party. Narcissa's pale eyes glanced around furtively, and then she whispered, "Is it true that the Dark Lord is going to speak about France? Everyone was talking… after the article in the _Prophet_ , you know…"

"Yes. He'll bring it up. Any moment now, I'm sure." Bellatrix glanced over her shoulder to where Voldemort stood talking with Antonin Dolohov and Orion Black. He flicked his eyes rather meaningfully to Bellatrix, letting his gaze linger on hers just long enough that she knew she'd been Summoned to him. Bellatrix gave Narcissa an apologetic look and said simply, "I'll see you later on, Cissy."

She didn't wait for a response; she just walked across the room as everyone before her bowed and curtsied and murmured their respect. When she reached the cluster of wizards, her own uncle bowed deeply to her, but Bellatrix ignored him. She smirked at Voldemort and teased him,

"My Lord, you've broken the rules! I believe masks were called for."

"What can I say, My Lady? I enjoy breaking rules almost as much as I enjoy making them. I'm something of a troublemaker, as you ought to know well by now." He sipped at his whiskey and turned up his mouth. Bellatrix couldn't help but feel attracted to the way his beard had grown in, now carefully cropped and almost entirely grey. But he'd called her over for a reason, and he said quite seriously, "My Lady, your uncle Orion managed to convince his son Sirius to leave Hogwarts and attend our little soirée. We wonder if you might try and talk a bit of sense into him."

 _Find out if he needs to be eliminated,_ Voldemort thought straight at Bellatrix. She nodded and said carefully,

"Uncle Orion, I'd love to see if we can't sort all this silliness out. Where is Sirius now?"

"Over there, My Lady." Orion pointed toward the far corner of the room to where two boys in half-face masks stood glaring at one another. Bellatrix frowned and asked,

"Who's he aiming daggers at, then? Regulus?"

"That boy is Severus Snape," said Antonin Dolohov in his thick accent. "Pegged by Carrow as something of a potions savant. Half-blood, but he's expressed interest in becoming a Death Eater when he leaves school."

Bellatrix furrowed her brows; the Snape boy seemed awfully waifish to be a potential Death Eater. She turned her gaze to Voldemort, and he assured her,

"He needs a few years, but I think he's got potential."

"Well. I'll introduce myself, then." Bellatrix nodded and flashed little smiles to all three of the men. "Excuse me, gentlemen."

They all bowed then, even Voldemort, as she strode off toward the corner. But when she reached her cousin Sirius, he did not bow. He stood up a little straighter and said rather sharply,

"Cousin Bellatrix. It has been some time since we've fraternised, hasn't it? But I remember many times playing Gobstones with you and 'Dromeda at Grimmauld Place…"

"Bite your tongue, Sirius, or I'll cut it straight out of your mouth." Bellatrix was utterly taken aback by the boy's gall, and then she quickly realised he'd been drinking. He couldn't have been older than fifteen, but he had a mostly-empty glass of wine in his hand, and it hadn't been the first. Sirius swigged down the last of the wine and slurred quietly,

"It was you who made sure they killed him. My best friend."

"Your best friend," Bellatrix repeated, glancing about to make sure no one was listening. The boy they'd called Snape had skulked off to the table of meat pies, so perhaps he had more sense than Bellatrix had initially thought. She turned her face back to Sirius, narrowing her eyes through her translucent mask as she demanded, "Who was your best friend, then, Sirius?"

"James Potter," spat Sirius. "He was just a boy, but I know it was you. They were convinced that his father had -"

"Charles Potter murdered Ophelia Yaxley," Bellatrix hissed. "He was a traitor, and his son couldn't be abided."

"No? What exactly did James Potter ever do to you or your husband?" Sirius was very drunk indeed; he leaned against the wall with one hand and tried to drink from his empty wine glass. Bellatrix considered storming away from him, but instead she stood in silence as Sirius grumbled quietly, "It's absurd, you know, to be bequeathed something by a fellow Gryffindor before either of your voices change. Completely ridiculous that I should be entrusted with that kind of family heirloom just because you all saw fit to get rid of the whole family."

He tried to drink from the empty glass again, got frustrated, and tossed it onto the ground. It shattered, and Bellatrix whipped her wand out to Vanish the shards before anyone could notice. Her heart started to accelerate, and something compelled her to ask in a soft voice,

"What sort of family heirloom did James Potter leave you, Sirius?"

Sirius scoffed, leaning more heavily against the wall as he mumbled, "It was supposed to go to whatever children James had, or if he had no children, then to his dearest friend. And that was me. We got into all kinds of trouble with it before James was gone, and I admit I've snuck off with a witch or two using it in the last -"

"Sirius." Bellatrix gulped hard, trying to keep her voice steady as she whispered, "What did James Potter leave you?"

Sirius' bleary eyes finally met hers straight on, and he shrugged. "It's like a really, really ugly blanket. Like a shawl. A cloak, James called it, but really it looks like a blanket. And it makes you -"

"Invisible," Bellatrix breathed. Sirius frowned and said in a blurred voice,

"How'd you know?"

"Just a hunch," Bellatrix said quickly. "Where is it? This cloak?"

"Why should I tell you?" Sirius spat, stumbling away from the wall a little. "You're just a bitch who turns on your own family and kills people like it's a game. Crazy bitch."

"Is it in your dormitory at Hogwarts, or did you bring it home?" Bellatrix asked hurriedly. Sirius wiped at his forehead with the back of his hand, pulling his mask akimbo as he drawled,

"Yeah. It's at school. I keep it safe in my trunk. Not as though I spend time waving it about like a flag, y'know?"

"Yes. That makes perfect sense. Good talking with you, Sirius." Bellatrix turned quickly away and found Voldemort's eyes in the sea of revelers. He sensed at once that she needed him, and he crossed the room, ripping himself abruptly from the conversation he'd been having with Avery. The two of them met up against the wall near the chocolate fountain, and Bellatrix hissed,

"You need to get in touch with Hadley Carrow at once, My Lord. The Invisibility Cloak is at Hogwarts."

Voldemort seemed confused for a moment, but Bellatrix reached for his hand and squeezed hard as she opened her mind and showed him a truncated vision of her conversation with Sirius. Voldemort's throat bobbed, and he glanced around.

"I have to speak about France," he said, his breath shaking. "Party's already been going on an hour. Bella, I need you to go to the owlery and tell Carrow to send Sirius Black's trunk to Archer's Edge at once. Don't tell her anything specific beyond that. Go. Hurry."

"Yes, My Lord." Bellatrix started to walk away, but he snatched her left wrist and whirled her back. He pulled her away from the wall, further out into the open, and he pressed his left hand to her back. He yanked her close, flush against his body, and suddenly Bellatrix could feel a hundred gazes lock onto them. She stared up at him, seeing the glitter in his dark eyes as he registered that soon he would have all three of the legendary Hallows. She felt the surge of energy, of arousal and anticipation, as it ripped through his mind and leeched right into hers. His hands tightened on her, and she whispered up to him,

"Everybody's watching, My Lord."

"Good." He seized her jaw in his free hand and bent down, crushing her mouth with a harsh kiss. Bellatrix felt her back bend a little against his hand, for he'd kissed her so hard that she could hardly stand upright. Her own hands flew to his shoulders, and she tingled from the inside out as she realised everyone was watching them. He kept kissing her, far beyond what would have been thorough even in private. His tongue pressed into her mouth, and Bellatrix had to suppress a laugh at the notion that her sisters and parents were seeing this. It got worse when his hand migrated from her back around her leather-bound torso, stroking at her ribcage. He groaned quietly against her mouth, and she knew then what he was doing.

He was showing all of them that he could do whatever he wanted. If Lucius and Narcissa had begun snogging in the middle of this party, Voldemort would have sent them away and demoted Lucius from his post. If Bellatrix had initiated this, she wouldn't have heard the end of it for weeks. He was being intimate - and, far more importantly, dominant - with his Lady, with their Lady, in front of everyone. In front of his Minister, his minions, her family. He was caressing her body and bruising her lips and moaning into her mouth in front of everyone, because he wanted to do it and no one could stop him. More than that, the first person to snicker or gasp or gossip would find themselves on the wrong end of a Cruciatus Curse. Every single thing in wizarding Britain happened at the leisure of Lord Voldemort, including this almost theatrical kiss.

Finally he released her, and the party-goers forced themselves back into quiet conversations. But as Bellatrix caught her breath, resisting the urge to fix her lipstick, she curled her lips up into a smile, poked her wand from her sleeve, and aimed it toward Voldemort.

" _Delenio_ ," she murmured, and he smirked like a schoolboy who had just gotten away with misbehaviour.

"Go, little thing," he instructed her. She dipped into a deep, reverential curtsy and held it, finally rising and making her way from the ballroom. As she strode down the corridor that led to the owlery staircase, she could hear Voldemort begin to address all those who had assembled.

"My friends… yes, I can call you my friends. I can not say the same for our former allies, the French, who have determined that it is better to live under the authority of a Mudblood whilst encouraging the integration of their society…"

Bellatrix smiled to herself as she climbed the winding stone stairs to the owners. By the time they went home from this ball, the Invisibility Cloak would be waiting for Voldemort. Then he would be the Master of Death. The Master of Everything.


	4. Chapter 4

_Archer's Edge_

 _1 November 1975_

"Bella..."

Voldemort clutched her waist and pumped his hips steadily against hers. This felt good. So good. He was completely drenched in sweat by now, reeking of sex and exertion, but he didn't care.

"Bella..."

His voice was a hoarse groan; he'd gotten thirsty an hour ago and had never got round to drinking anything. He'd been too busy shoving his cock into Bellatrix in every single way imaginable. He'd needed to do that after they'd come home to see Sirius Black's school trunk in the foyer of Archer's Edge. Inside had been the Invisibility Cloak, looking like a ragged old velvet blanket. Bellatrix had put it around her shoulders and it had looked like her head was floating. Then Voldemort had realised that he had all three of the Deathly Hallows, and he'd completely lost himself to his elated lust.

"Bella!" He snarled and came again, for what was at least the sixth time. He'd lost count. He fought for his breath through the blinding, pinching bliss, and when he looked down at Bellatrix's face, he realised she had her fists dug into her eye sockets. She was crying - sobbing, actually. Her chest heaved and salty tracks down her cheeks revealed that she'd been crying for some time. Voldemort's cock went immediately soft inside of her, and when he let himself slip from her body, the massive slick of seed that followed told him he'd taken things too far.

"Bella." This time he said her name gently, carefully. He reached for her hands, but she winced and whimpered and rolled away from him. Feeling suddenly confused, Voldemort tried to think back over the last few hours. They'd come back from the Halloween ball, both of them a little tipsy, and they'd discovered the Cloak. Voldemort had carried Bellatrix up the winding staircase, and she'd put the cloak on the windowsill beside the bed. Then he'd torn her clothing from her. He'd literally torn it. He frowned as he stared at the ruined gown on the floor, the beautiful creation she'd had made special for the ball. He shut his eyes and felt sick, because flashes of what had happened came rocketing back into his consciousness.

He could hear her telling him it was too much, too fast, that she was dry, that she was sore. He'd ignored her every time. He could feel the way her biceps had been so tiny and fragile beneath his hands as he'd pinned her to the bed. He could taste the sweaty skin on her neck as he'd attacked her with his lips and his tongue and his teeth. And then an image came into his mind from Bellatrix's, and he almost got sick as he staggered away from the bed.

 _"My Lord, please... not there; that's not natural."_

 _"It's what I want, Bellatrix, and you of all people should know that I get what I want. Lubrico." Voldemort had stretched her open with his fingers, testing the one hole he'd never plundered on her body. She'd shrieked and sobbed into the pillow when he'd pushed in, but it had been so tight, so warm and perfect, and she hadn't made any more noise of protest._

"No." Voldemort stumbled back against the wardrobe and found himself covering his limp manhood with his hands. From the bed, Bellatrix glared at him, tears still worming their way down her cheeks. Voldemort shook his head, feeling his eyes sear, and he stammered, "I didn't... I would never..."

"It's happened before - you getting all riled up after some great conquest," Bellatrix whispered, "but never for so long, and never to the point where I really thought your mind had gone somewhere else entirely."

"Bellatrix..." Voldemort shut his eyes, trying to rid himself of the awful sound of her pleading with him. He heard her mumble from the bed,

"I could have fought you. Could have Stupefied you or something, but... I didn't want to ruin it for you."

"Ruin it for me," he repeated, staring at her and letting his mouth fall open. She shrugged and said helplessly,

"You finally have everything. Everything you've ever wanted. You have your Horcruxes. You have all of wizarding Britain. You have the Deathly Hallows."

"But apparently I am still thoroughly lacking in control of myself," Voldemort noted. "That seems a bit dangerous, doesn't it? A bit undesirable. And, anyway, I have the Hallows and what of it? Nothing's changed."

He watched as Bellatrix pushed her curls from her sweat-slicked face. She swiped at her nose and eyes and mumbled,

"May I have my wand, please? I'm... everything hurts."

"Oh, Bella." Voldemort walked over to the bedside table and picked up her wand, holding it out to her and keeping his distance. He heard her mumble various healing and reparative spells, and his stomach churned. Now he remembered everything - the way she'd spluttered and choked as he'd forced his cock too deeply down her throat. The way she'd squirmed and whined in pain as he'd put too much weight against her. That unbearable scream into the pillow when he'd violated a place where she hadn't wanted him to go.

"You're wrong," he whispered, and when Bellatrix scowled up at him, he shook his head and told her, "You said I have everything because I have power and immortality, but... you are everything, Bellatrix. Don't you know that? Don't you understand that I would flatten mountains, destroy cities, and kill millions of people for you? Don't you know that I would burn that cloak, smash up the stone, and snap the wand for you? You have to understand, Bellatrix, that without you I am empty and broken, but with you I am... I am... whole. And I... please. Please, Bella."

He didn't even know what he was asking her for. Perhaps he wanted to know that she comprehended her significance to him. Perhaps he wanted forgiveness. Bellatrix stared at the blanket that she'd pulled up modestly around her body, and she mused,

"I'll look seventeen for as long as I live. You use a book to help stave off destruction from splitting your soul so many times. You're the Master of Death, for whatever that's worth. And your magic is so immense that sometimes it consumes you entirely. It'll never be enough; you have everything you've ever wanted and you're still hungry. What sort of beasts have we become, My Lord?"

"I don't know," he said honestly. He glanced down and noticed that he was still naked, and for some reason that felt terribly inappropriate just now. He opened the wardrobe and pulled out a pair of flannel black pants, and he mumbled,

"If you'd like, I'll go stay at Malfoy Manor for a while."

"What?"

He turned round to see her fidgeting with her wand and shaking her head with confusion. He scoffed quietly and told her,

"I reckon most wizards who'd done what I did to you would have earned themselves some isolation. Or a good solid Cruciatus Curse, at least."

"I'm not going to torture you, My Lord," Bellatrix informed him, but in her head, he could see visions of her using the Bloody Eye Hex on him the same way she'd done to Tarquin Avery.

"What I did was much worse than what Tarquin Avery did," Voldemort noted, handing her a nightgown. She wordlessly pulled it on, and he quietly aimed a few repairing charms at her gown before sending it to hang in the wardrobe.

"Will you Obliviate me, please?" Bellatrix asked. Voldemort squared his jaw and shook his head.

"I don't like the idea of tampering with your memory for any reason," he said. "And, anyway, I'd still know what I did. I need to... I should go put it in the book, probably."

He hung his head, feeling very guilty all of a sudden. It wasn't a feeling to which he was accustomed. The wickedness he'd recorded in the book from Croatia was, almost without exception, a list of deeds about which he felt no compunction. Only the sins against Bellatrix had come with any sense of grief or sorrow. He could sense then that Bellatrix was remembering it, the way he'd fucked her mouth until she had nearly vomited, the way he'd invaded her while she screamed.

"Stop. Please," Voldemort whispered, and Bellatrix sent her Occlumency defences up at once. Voldemort frowned and dragged his fingers over his cropped hair. "That isn't what I mean."

He took a shaking breath and watched as Bellatrix silently tucked herself beneath the blankets. She curled into a ball and started to cry again, and Voldemort eyed the Invisibility Cloak where it sat on the windowsill. He had half a mind to Vanish it or to light it on fire, but instead he just walked out of the bedroom. He'd lie all night in the guest room, staring at the ceiling and feeling like an irredeemable cur. But there was no helping that. He paused at the threshold of the bedroom doorway and said quietly over his shoulder,

"I do hope someday you might find it in you to forgive me, Bella. I really am quite sorry. I won't ever let such a thing happen again; I'll find a way to stay in control of myself."

She said nothing, so he just shut the door gently behind him.

* * *

 _Archer's Edge_

 _1 November 1975_

Bellatrix studied her reflection in the bathroom mirror. She'd pulled her hair back into a tight chignon at the nape of her neck, and she'd pulled on a black wool dress that was dour enough for a funeral. There were dark purple bags beneath her eyes, and even darker bruises all over her neck and collarbone. The sleeves of her dress hid the fingerprint-shaped marks from where he'd held her too tightly. She'd used every healing spell she knew, but she was still tender between her legs and even more so in her backside. Bellatrix glanced down at her onyx-and-diamond ring, touching it gently and reminding herself that she was bound to Voldemort for all eternity. He was her lord and master. She needed to move beyond this. Quickly.

But when she started to walk from the bathroom, the pain between her legs was so bad that her eyes burned. She'd dreamed the night before, during the brief sleep she'd managed, that Voldemort had been lying in a pool of his own blood with Bellatrix looming above him, hate in her eyes. She still wasn't sure if Voldemort had shared the dream, or whose mind had cooked it up. It didn't matter, probably.

She pattered down the winding stairs, knowing he'd be in his office by now. She was surprised, upon entering the wood-lined office, to see him fly up from his chair and bow to her. Bellatrix froze, a little confused. He kept his head bowed and murmured gently,

"Good morning, My Lady."

It felt stilted and distant and unequal in the wrong direction, so she dipped into a low curtsy and let her layered wool skirts billow around her. She saw him eye her, and she held the gesture for a long moment.

"My Lord."

She rose, and his glittering eyes met hers as she approached his desk. He aimed his wand at the doorway and muttered,

" _Accio_ Butterfly Weed Balm."

A moment later, a little jar came soaring into the office from the potions stores, and Voldemort stepped around his desk as he caught the jar. Bellatrix folded her hands before her and tipped her chin up a little as he unscrewed the jar of balm. He sniffed lightly, silently dipping two fingers into the balm and bringing them to Bellatrix's neck. He rubbed carefully, his eyes locked on Bellatrix as he whispered,

"I am very sorry, little thing."

"It's nothing," Bellatrix insisted, but his eyes flashed behind his glasses, and as he rubbed more balm onto the marks he'd left, he said,

"It was horrid. I was horrid. And you are everything to me, Bellatrix. I wish I had a name for you to... I only wish you had something to call me that didn't make you sound like a servant."

Now it was Bellatrix's turn to frown, and as he smeared even more balm onto her skin, she noted,

"But I am your servant, My Lord. The most loyal of your servants, I should I like to hope."

"You're my wife." He scooped out one last glob of balm and dragged his fingers carefully from her shoulder to her ear. Bellatrix shivered and met his eyes as he screwed the lid back onto the jar. He shook his head and mused, "You can call me whatever you like, Bella, but you know very well that I haven't been your master for years."

Bellatrix's lips parted and she tried to speak, but she found she had nothing to say. She shrugged as Voldemort set the jar of Butterfly Weed Balm down on the desk behind him, and she said softly,

"All that matters is how deeply I love you. To the marrow of my bones, I love you. With every scrap of my being, I love you."

She watched his throat bob, and he took her cheeks in his hands as he tipped his head and noted,

"So very many reasons why it could have only ever been you."

He lowered his face to hers, moving tentatively as though he thought she might slap him. But she didn't; she let him kiss her, and after a moment it felt like all the terrible sensations from the night before had dissolved into the air. She found herself holding the front of his robes, kissing him back and knowing that no single offence could ever tear apart the threads of how they were bound together. They were knotted beyond untangling, the two of them, and as Bellatrix felt the marks on her neck heal up, she found she did not mind at all.

He would always need to kill, to conquer. He would always need battles to fight and wars to win. There would never be enough people murmuring _My Lord_ to him and averting their eyes in fear. But there had been no malice toward her even last night from him. He adored her; he'd said so many years before and she knew it was still true. So she kissed him back.

* * *

 _Archer's Edge_

 _5 November 1975_

Bellatrix snorted a little laugh as she stood at the sink in the bathroom cleaning her teeth. Voldemort frowned and glanced self-consciously down at his bare chest and pyjama trousers.

"What is it?"

She spat the foam out and rinsed her mouth, swiping the back of her hand over her lips as she set down her toothbrush. She smirked and insisted,

"It's nothing."

Voldemort scowled and stepped up behind her. The instant he saw his reflection in the mirror, he couldn't help but laugh a little himself. His hair had grown out a bit, and it was sticking up in every direction. His beard had gone a bit rogue, too, looking wiry and wild.

"Oh, all right. Fine. I do look rather like a bear, don't I?"

He threaded his arms around Bellatrix, and she rubbed at his forearm as they stared at one another in the mirror. She looked a little dreamy then as she informed him,

"Well, if you're a bear, you're my bear, and I don't mind that."

"No?" Voldemort found himself pulling up the hem of her short black nightgown, and Bellatrix tipped her head back against his chest. His fingers trailed up the inside of her thigh, and her breath hitched as he asked her, "You don't mind having a bear for a husband?"

"I don't mind," she whispered. She hummed contentedly when his fingertips found her womanhood. Voldemort felt his cock go hard in his pyjamas as he began rubbing her, but he ignored the erection. Bellatrix didn't; she ground back against him as he fingered her. He couldn't help but tighten his other hand around her waist and rub against her back. They hadn't been deeply intimate since the night of Halloween ball, since the terrible night when he'd been so awful to her.

Now Bellatrix moaned and leaned forward, gripping the sides of the sink and swirling her hips against his hand and his cock. When at last her walls clenched around his fingers, the mental link was entirely too much to endure, and her pleasure leeched straight into Voldemort's consciousness. He felt himself spill his seed in his trousers, the sticky fluid getting all over the flannel of his pyjamas. He couldn't care; all he could do was kiss Bellatrix between her shoulder blades and mumble that he needed a shower.

Fifteen minutes later, he'd washed himself and cleaned his teeth. He'd combed his hair and trimmed his beard, and as he stepped out into the bedroom to see Bellatrix looking slick and professional, he held his arms out and declared,

"No more bear."

Bellatrix turned up half her mouth and told him, "No... now you'll always be my bear. At least in my mind."

"All right, then." He started to get dressed, and suddenly he found himself rather liking the idea of her having a nickname for him the way he did for her. She was his little thing. She had been for years. Perhaps it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world if she called him her bear, so long as it stayed entirely private. Ever since he'd inadvertently violated her body, he'd winced every time she'd called him 'My Lord.' In a group, it was perfectly fine. When they were alone, it felt unpleasantly uneven.

"Ready?" He straightened his tie and held his arm out to her. They had a meeting at Malfoy Manor in just a few minutes. Hadley Carrow had written the day before asking for an audience, and he'd granted it, for he thought he knew what the issue at hand was. Bellatrix took his arm, and together they Disapparated, coming to in the main corridor of Malfoy Manor. Voldemort didn't release Bellatrix's arm. He kept walking with her, their hands eventually sliding together and their fingers linking. It felt good to touch her, and so he didn't let go until they reached the dining-room.

As soon as they walked through the doorway, thin Headmistress Carrow and a greasy black-haired boy flew to their feet. Voldemort frowned a little as he found his chair, and he said,

"Sit. Severus Snape. I was not expecting you." He gave Carrow a rather significant look, but Snape said in a smooth drone,

"My Lord, I apologise for my last-minute and rather unannounced attendance. Headmistress Carrow thought perhaps it would be best for me to be here myself to tell you what I'd heard. I will, of course, leave if you find my presence inappropriate."

Beside Voldemort, Bellatrix rolled her eyes a little, seeming annoyed by the boy's overeager, sycophantic speech. Voldemort asked simply,

"What is it that you heard, Severus?"

Snape cleared his throat gently, and Hadley Carrow eyed him with tight lips. Snape finally said,

"I walked into Herbology lessons, My Lord, which Slytherin has together with Gryffindor. I was standing behind Sirius Black and his good friend, Remus Lupin. Black was muttering something that was making Lupin look quite concerned, so I used a nonverbal Amplification Charm to eavesdrop. It turns out that Black was telling Lupin that he means to join the scattered rebels in Ireland after the Christmas holidays."

Voldemort cocked up an eyebrow and glanced over to Bellatrix. She sat up a bit straighter and demanded,

"What did Lupin say to that?"

"He called Sirius Black a fool, My Lady, and warned him not to do anything so dangerous or illegal."

"Hmm." Bellatrix looked sceptical, but Voldemort could tell the boy was conveying the truth. He turned his gaze to Hadley Carrow and said sharply,

"I want Sirius Black delivered here to the Manor by this evening. Have Dolohov and Avery collect him and put him in the dungeons."

"Yes, Master." Carrow bowed her head, and Voldemort said to Snape,

"Continue to prove your loyalty to me, Severus, and in a few years' time, there may be a place for you among my Death Eaters. Both of you are dismissed."

They both rose and dipped and murmured platitudes, and Voldemort waited until they'd gone before he warded up the dining-room doors and sent a muffling hex out into the corridors. He glanced at Bellatrix and shrugged.

"Well?"

"Well," she repeated, pursing her lips, "I think that if you torture or execute him outright, it might cause a stir. My aunt and uncle know he's a problem, but he hasn't done anything quite as brazen as Andromeda did. If I were in charge, which I admittedly am not, I'd sentence him indefinitely to Azkaban for insidious speech, and I'd have them administer the Dementor's Kiss upon intake."

Voldemort couldn't help but smirk a little. He'd been thinking almost the exact same thing. He nodded and said,

"Right. We'll have that seen to as soon as possible, then." He drummed his fingers on the table and glanced around the room, and Bellatrix said quietly,

"It's not enough for you, is it?"

Voldemort frowned. "What do you mean?"

She gave him a meaningful look and said, "Dealing with a back-talking little boy who may or may not run off to join individual rebels in Ireland. You need a full-on war. You always will."

He opened his mouth to protest, but he couldn't find a way to argue with her. She was right, of course. Things had become almost too easy. He didn't administer the day-to-day happenings at the Ministry, and he didn't want to do so. The most he ever saw these days in the way of battle were the overhead strikes on identified rebels in Ireland. And Bellatrix was right. It wasn't enough.

"You know," he said quietly, drawing a circle on the wooden table with his finger, "I might like to cement my people's loyalty even further by deposing the Mudblood heading up the French government."

Bellatrix raised an eyebrow. "You'd make Canada rather cross. And... Belgium, probably. Spain? I'm not sure who would care enough to get involved."

Voldemort smiled a little and suggested, "A small war might be a bit of fun."

Bellatrix rolled her eyes and insisted, "You know as well as I do that it wouldn't be a small war. But it would probably be rather fun. I know you're more a general than a king, anyway."

"So..." Voldemort sighed and studied her face. "War with France. To depose the Mudblood."

Bellatrix's eyes glinted, and she nodded as she reminded him, "I became your servant, fell in love with you, and married you during times of back-to-back battles. It was exciting, then, wasn't it? Life."

"Yes." Voldemort's heart thumped a little as he imagined storming the French Ministry with dozens of Death Eaters, with Bellatrix at his side. He felt a little dizzy then, his lust for conflict thrumming through him. "We'll have to surreptitiously build up a good force. Conduct lots of training. Keep it quiet for a while."

Bellatrix nodded. "You just tell me what I need to do, and I will gladly do it."

She liked the way his face had been illuminated by the idea of war. He could sense that from her. He rose from his chair, and she immediately followed suit. He walked the three steps to her and seized her face in his hands, kissing her hard and remembering just how beautiful she'd always looked in full-fledged battle.

"War with France, then, bear," she whispered when he pulled away, and he smirked as he nodded and said,

"My little thing in battle, her face lit up by the jade green light from her wand. Yes, Bella. War with France."


	5. Chapter 5

_Malfoy Manor_

 _17 November 1975_

"Well. Thanks for having us for tea, Cissy," Bellatrix said. "I feel badly that Lucius isn't able to spend his birthday with you."

Druella Black made a little sound of displeasure, but Narcissa huffed and said,

"Mummy, you know his work at the Ministry keeps him so very busy."

Bellatrix knew better than that. Lucius had been training all morning with Voldemort himself, practising the Unforgivables that had never really become routine for him. Lucius would be needed in battle when the time came, though Voldemort had told the young wizard that he simply needed to hone his skills as a Death Eater. Lucius would be exhausted and useless by tonight, Bellatrix knew, but just the same, she reassured Narcissa,

"I'm sure he's very much looking forward to dinner with you, Cissy. And that cake you've made him."

She winked, for she'd had to teach Narcissa quit a bit about baking, and Narcissa's first five or six attempts had been utter failures. Druella clucked her tongue and set her cup and saucer down on the parlour table as she lamented,

"I've no idea why you girls perseverate so much over manual baking. It seems counter to the Dark Lord's vision for wizarding Britain."

"The Dark Lord really does like the bread I bake from time to time, Mother," Bellatrix said, eliciting a giggle from Narcissa and red cheeks from her mother. Bellatrix sipped at her tea and added, "He thinks it's fascinating, the way I punch the dough down before putting it into the oven."

Narcissa laughed harder than ever, but suddenly her voice went silent, and Bellatrix knew why. The door to the parlour had opened, and Bellatrix could feel him there, standing behind her. Druella and Narcissa flew to their feet and quickly dipped into reverent curtsies. Bellatrix rose a little more casually, brushing her hands on her skirts after she set her tea down.

"Hello," Lord Voldemort said from where he stood. There was fire in his eyes, and Bellatrix could tell at once that something was wrong. She frowned when she noticed he had a newspaper rolled up in his hand, and she said quietly,

"Mother. Cissy. Give us the room."

"Of course, dear. Come on, Narcissa." Druella obeyed her eldest daughter without question, seizing Narcissa's hand and leading her away from the furniture. Voldemort stood aside and nodded to the witches as they passed, dipping again and murmuring the requisite good day, My Lord.

Once they'd gone, Voldemort shut the door and warded it, and he approached Bellatrix, holding out the newspaper with a shaking hand. Bellatrix scowled and took it, shaking her head as she realised it was _Le Monde Magique_ , the main wizarding newspaper in France. She tried to make sense of the headline and story, but the only word she recognised was 'Voldemort.' The photograph, however, was of a lovely blonde witch, her head tipped up rather imperiously toward the camera.

" _Verto Anglica_ ," murmured Bellatrix, grazing her wand over the newspaper. The French text translated itself into English, and she sat down slowly as she began to read.

 _THE MANY DANGERS IN THE MIND OF LORD VOLDEMORT - Minister Tessier Tells All!_

Bellatrix raised her eyes to see that Voldemort was pacing, his hands knitting together anxiously behind his back. His eyes shone with more rage than Bellatrix could remember seeing in quite some time. She checked the date on the newspaper, realising it had been available in France for well at least a few hours. It was, therefore, with a great sense of dread that she read the article to herself.

 _Minister Adelise Tessier is known for her sharp diplomatic skills, especially with nations like Russia who have demonstrated unsavoury positions on issues like so-called 'blood purity.' She says that she traveled to Britain last month in hopes of convincing their extra-governmental dictator, 'Lord Voldemort,' to stop putting so much emphasis on the matter of excluding Muggle-born witches and wizards. What she found, she said, was a complete madman._

 _'The moment he laid eyes on me, all he could focus on was my looks,' says Minister Tessier. 'It's tragic, really, because I know that he has a lovely young wife whom he married before she even finished her schooling at Hogwarts. But his predatory gaze locked on my breasts and my legs throughout our truncated meeting, and I confess I did not feel at all safe in his presence. It was not his magical powers I feared, but rather the sickening desire in his gaze.'_

 _When asked about the political content of their meeting, Minister Tessier says she has reason to believe that the so-called 'Lord Voldemort' may not be everything he appears. He refuses to use his original name, which she says she's confirmed to be Tom Marvolo Riddle, because the surname is that of his allegedly Muggle father. This reporter interviewed several anonymous sources currently located in Ireland, all of whom confirmed they'd attended Hogwarts with a Halfblood called Tom Marvolo Riddle before he changed his identity._

 _'I believe that his obsession with blood purity stems from his own insecurities,' says Minister Tessier. 'He reacted so violently when I revealed to him that my parents are non-Magical. That's why France has been preparing so carefully for an attack from wizarding Britain. We can not trust that this insecure, psychotic man will be content to contain his narcissism in Britain. If Tom Marvolo Riddle and his child bride want to attack France, we stand at the ready. In the meantime, our doors are open to any refugees from Britain, and we remain committed to the cause of equality, regardless of one's origins.'_

Bellatrix cleared her throat as she set the newspaper down on the table. She pursed her lips and asked quietly,

"How did she find out about..."

"Obviously some angry Mudblood Gryffindor who went to school with me who's lurking in Ireland. Something like that, I should think." Voldemort's voice shook with anger, and he paused for a moment as he shut his eyes. Bellatrix could feel his magic crackling in the air around him and knew that he was on the verge of losing control. She rose slowly from the furniture and walked toward him, trying to ease his tension by noting,

"If you were staring at her breasts during the meeting, I could hardly blame you. She look very -"

"Shut up." His snarl was almost lethal then, and when his eyes opened, they flashed scarlet for a half second. Bellatrix stumbled backward and tried to tell her husband that his eyes had just gone red, but he saw it in her mind first. His brows furrowed, but he didn't have the ability to dwell on that just now. Instead he told Bellatrix,

"The instant this starts getting circulated around Britain, my authority will be seriously compromised. If everyone knows I had a Muggle father? If they think I'm lusting after some Mudblood foreign minister? And as for war... well, it looks like they'd be expecting us, hm?"

"Where did you get this copy of the newspaper?" Bellatrix asked, and Voldemort threw up his hands as he admitted, "I've been having daily copies of their paper sent to my office for a month; I wanted to keep tabs..."

"That was intelligent," Bellatrix nodded. She gulped hard and suggested, "You could put a Contact Hex on it."

Voldemort frowned deeply and hesitated. "That only works within a -"

"Four hundred mile radius, yes." Bellatrix tipped her head and said, "This is undoubtedly a copy. An identical iteration. There are hundreds, at least thousands. I'm sure a few dozen get sent to Britain by owl every day. But you could put a Trace on this and every other copy in Britain. And a Contact Hex that would cause any copy to dissolve into ash as soon as it's touched. It's complicated magic, but... issue an edict at once, too, banning the import of any French literature, newspapers, music, or artefacts. Ban all travel to France by British witches and wizards."

"A complete embargo," Voldemort nodded. "You think with a Contact Hex and a Trace, I could staunch any damage here?"

"Well," Bellatrix told him, "You could also... you could make an example."

"An example," Voldemort repeated, and Bellatrix nodded as she licked her lip carefully. "The next rebel we track down in Ireland... torture them and any family members into complete oblivion and publish in the Daily Prophet that slander about the Dark Lord will be met with no mercy. Let that Tessier wench run her sham of a country however she likes; she won't take you down. We won't allow that."

Voldemort swallowed hard and nodded, and the crackling of his magic subsided enough that Bellatrix thought perhaps the room wasn't going to be obliterated at any moment. He picked up the newspaper and pulled out the Elder Wand, and he began performing the Dark, deep magic at which he'd always excelled.

* * *

 _Donegal, Ireland_

 _20 November 1975_

" _CRUCIO_!"

Bellatrix shoved her sweaty curls out of her eyes, watching as Voldemort took a turn. They'd been working on the MacLeod family for hours; they'd been hiding in the rugged northern part of Ireland after fleeing Scotland. Bellatrix had already driven the wife, Maralind, into complete insanity. She lay twitching on the ground of the cottage, white-haired and quiet as she mumbled nonsense at the ceiling.

But Voldemort had insisted on taking complete control over Edward MacLeod, who had been a Hufflepuff in school with Tom Marvolo Riddle. A bit of Legilimency aimed at a previous prisoner had revealed that Edward MacLeod had been visited by and spoken with a French reporter. He'd revealed that Tom Marvolo Riddle had been crafty in gaining a gang of friends to mask the fact that he'd come to Hogwarts from a Muggle orphanage.

Now Edward MacLeod lay in a a puddle of his own blood, for Voldemort had had a bit of fun with more creative hexes before turning to the Cruciatus. MacLeod writhed and moaned as the blood covered his pale blue robes. He started to scream, to shriek, to cry out for his wife Maralind. But Maralind was too busy twining her milky hair around her bony finger to answer.

Bellatrix took the camera that was hanging round her neck, and she aimed it at the scene before her. Maralind MacLeod, staring blankly at the rafters. Edward MacLeod, his face and body contorted and covered in blood. And Lord Voldemort, looking like a complete monster as bliss came over his face. Bellatrix lowered the camera, knowing that photographic evidence of this scene would only create martyrs out of the criminals. They could simply use the names and facts of the incident to craft an example.

"My Lord, we've lingered too long," Bellatrix warned Voldemort. "We should end it and go."

"Fine. Let's end it." Voldemort's eyes flashed again, and Bellatrix shivered with fear as he snapped his wand back and cried, " _AVADA KEDAVRA!"_

Edward MacLeod didn't move again after that. Voldemort stormed out of the cottage, dragging Bellatrix with him. He shoved her away, and as she staggered back, she wasn't sure why he was being so rough. Then he slashed his wand through the air, and a giant Blasting Curse blew the cottage up. Bellatrix shrieked and threw a powerful shield up around herself, which proved wise when the large stones that had comprised the cottage's exterior came raining down. She watched in wide-eyed shock as Edward MacLeod's body soared through the air and then slammed back down. Voldemort stepped toward the carnage and set it on fire with another spell, and then Bellatrix saw him drag the unmoving form of Maralind MacLeod up into the air. Bellatrix stared at the unconscious witch as her body moved in a slow circle. Voldemort smirked, looking like a child with a toy. He waited until the fire had built up in the ruins of the cottage, and then he brought Maralind MacLeod's body back.

Bellatrix vomited then, for even in her own most sadistic moments, she'd never done anything like what Voldemort did with Maralind MacLeod. He split her body in half at the waist as though she were an egg to be cracked open, and he dropped both parts into the inferno that had once been the witch's house. Voldemort laughed maniacally while Bellatrix spit out the bile that had come up into her mouth, and he screamed,

"Do you see, little thing? Do you see what happens to the people who want to shame me, who want to destroy me? Do you see?"

"Yes, bear." Bellatrix used the nickname in an attempt to bring him back to his senses. He was so far gone, Bellatrix could see. His eyes flashed red again, and his grin made her shiver. She stroked at his arm and said gently, "Yes, bear. I see. Let's go home."

He Disapparated then, bringing her by Side-Along, and it was so sudden that Bellatrix hurled straight onto the ground at Archer's Edge when they came to. She pretended, in the next twenty minutes, that she'd only felt ill because of the Apparition. She didn't tell him that she'd felt queasy at the sight of Maralind MacLeod being split open and set on fire. After all, they'd both probably done worse, and Voldemort had been acting to preserve his reputation and his power.

She let him fuck her into the sheets, let him wash her hair gleefully in the shower, and she reassured him before they fell asleep that he'd done precisely the right thing, that no one would ever really be able to threaten his authority.

But as she stared into the darkness, listening to his quiet, slow breath beside her, Bellatrix wasn't entirely sure where the truth was in any of that.

* * *

 _Archer's Edge_

 _20 December 1975_

"We don't have to go."

"Yes, we do." Voldemort tightened and straightened his black tie round his neck and studied his reflection in the bathroom mirror. In the last month, he'd exchanged a series of threatening letters with Adelise Tessier. He'd received the Minister of Belgium in order to reassure him that there would be no war between Britain and France. And, under unyielding pressure, he'd done an interview with the _Daily Prophet_ in which he'd admitted that he'd had a Muggle father. It had been inescapable, for rumours had wormed their way through Britain by way of Continental relatives and friends.

The news hadn't been so groundbreaking; it turned out that most of the original Death Eaters and many of Voldemort's most ardent followers knew exactly who Tom Marvolo Riddle had been. They also knew that Lord Voldemort was not that boy from the Muggle orphanage. And, in fact, wizarding Britain had rallied harder than ever around the cause of blood purity when Voldemort had made it clear that his abhorrent Muggle father had abandoned his witch mother, leading to her premature death.

The last few rebels in Ireland had been killed or had vanished onto the Continent. There had been no intelligence on dissident behaviour for the last two weeks. Voldemort's power was secure. Still, it had been a rocky and unpleasant few weeks, and Voldemort felt more personally vulnerable than he preferred to feel. So although he was not exactly looking forward to the Black family Christmas gathering, he knew he needed to go. It was an annual occasion, and normalcy was needed now more than ever.

Bellatrix appeared beside him in the bathroom, and he flicked his eyes up and down her form as he noted quietly,

"You look like Carmen."

"Who?" Bellatrix frowned, and Voldemort smirked a little.

"It's a Muggle opera," he said quietly. "The main character wears a get-up rather like the one you've got on. I saw it when I was ten; it was an outing funded by a charity."

Bellatrix looked down self-consciously at her black corset, her black lace sleeves, and her gathered skirts of red-and-black patterned velvet. Her hair hair been left long in smooth curls, but she'd pulled part back with a red silk rose.

"Do I look silly?" Bellatrix asked. "I usually wear all black, but... I thought I'd change it up. If it's silly, I can -"

"You do not look silly." Voldemort carefully applied some pomade to his hair and combed it straight back. He met Bellatrix's eyes and informed her, "You look positively intoxicating. Sure you can breathe?"

She touched at her tightly laced corset and grinned. "I'm sure."

Voldemort set his comb down and turned round, tipping Bellatrix's chin up until her eyes met his. "These last few weeks have been chaos," he noted, "and I'm not sure I'd have made it through if it weren't for you. So... thank you, little thing."

Bellatrix shook her head, reaching up for the jaw he'd shaven clean a few days earlier, when he'd been in desperate need of a fresh start. She stroked at the place where his beard had been, and she insisted,

"It wasn't me who told your story so expertly to the _Prophet_. It was you whose letters to Tessier have made her back off, at least for now. And you're the one who left that fire burning in Donegal to scare off the others. Let there be no doubt whatsoever - you are the Dark Lord Voldemort, and you've steadied everything through your own power."

He turned up half his mouth and sighed. "I won't argue the matter with you, My Lady. We should go, probably."

He held out his hand, and the instant Bellatrix took it, Voldemort Disapparated and came to at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. Orion and Walburga Black had been surprisingly receptive to the news that their son Sirius had been banished to Azkaban. After all, they'd insisted, he'd been a shame on the family for years. But what they didn't know was that the boy's soul had been consumed by a Dementor. Now he was in a cell with ten others who had met the same fate, all of them lying like vegetables on the cold, damp stone floor. Voldemort wasn't sure how the Black family would react to that news, but he wasn't anxious to find out. Their younger son, Regulus, had joined Severus Snape in declaring his intention to become a Death Eater after Hogwarts. Voldemort would focus positive attention toward Regulus, he figured, to help Orion and Walburga move past Sirius.

"Welcome, My Lord," croaked the House-Elf Kreacher when the door opened. Inside the parlour to the left, those assembled immediately ceased their conversations and dipped into gestures of humility. It was a smaller crowd this year for security reasons. Cygnus Black III and his wife Druella, Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, Abraxas and Cerda Malfoy, Orion and Walburga Black and their son Regulus, Antonin Dolohov, Dahlia Lestrange and little Rosemary had come. A few other members of the inner circle, including a few Rosiers and Averys and Shacklebolts, had been invited. Dahlia had been Bellatrix's idea; she thought it was wise that Dahlia should continue to be treated as the honoured widow of a war hero. Rosemary toddled around Dahlia's legs as her mother dipped into a deep curtsy.

Voldemort and Bellatrix split up at once; Bellatrix went off to chat with her mother and sister and Dahlia. Voldemort mumbled to the House-Elf that he'd take a gin and tonic, and he began a conversation with Cygnus and Walburga Black. The two, funnily enough, were siblings, and Walburga hadn't had to change her surname when she'd married her cousin Orion. Though he actively promoted the Pureblood ways, Voldemort would always feel slightly squicked by a few of their customary, too-close marriage ideas.

"My Lord, I'm not sure if you've heard, but our brother Alphard hasn't been in contact in some time," Cygnus Black III said carefully. "We believe he may have fled the country."

Voldemort raised his eyebrows and flicked his eyes between the two siblings. "Andromeda. Sirius. Alphard. Not a good few years for the House of Black, eh?"

"I should hope, My Lord, that the undying loyalty of the entire rest of the family ameliorates the hideous betrayals committed by a small few," said Walburga tightly. Voldemort resisted the urge to smirk at her. He took the gin and tonic offered to him by Kreacher the elf, and he sipped at it before he said matter-of-factly,

"Either Alphard's gone to a different country or he hasn't. So long as he's not causing me any problems, feel free to wipe him off your tapestry. Thank you for hosting the party, Madam Black. Cygnus, I'm off to find your eldest daughter. Good evening to you both."

He didn't wait for either of them to answer. Instead, he stalked over to where Bellatrix stood in a small cluster of witches. Little Rosemary, who was now three-and-a-half, squeaked and dashed behind Dahlia Lestrange's legs as Voldemort approached, and she exclaimed in a terrified voice,

"Mummy, it's _him_. It's the man from the newspaper! With the scary face!"

"Rosemary!" Dahlia hissed, flashing Voldemort an apologetic look as she dipped into a curtsy. Bellatrix giggled a bit as she drank from her glass of milk. Narcissa Malfoy and Druella Black mirrored Dahlia's reverence but both smiled a bit at the child's terror. Voldemort wordlessly crouched down, careful not to muss his tuxedo robes, and he peered around Dahlia Lestrange's turquoise skirts.

"You know, Miss Lestrange, I'm really not so very bad," he teased her, and the child's face appeared as she tentatively gripped Dahlia's hand. Voldemort tried not to laugh at the little creature as he assured her, "Your father was quite a good friend of mine, you know, and your mother has been friends with my wife for some time. So we are, you and I, friends by extension, you see?"

"Oh." Rosemary stepped out from behind Dahlia, pursing her little lips uncertainly. She had Rabastan's eyes, Voldemort noted at once. And his nose, too. There was no denying her. He sniffed lightly, remembering Rabastan Lestrange's funeral and the way he'd buried the Gaunt ring at the monument. He rose on creaking knees to stand and said to Dahlia Lestrange,

"I visited his grave not so very long ago."

It wasn't a lie, though of course he hadn't gone there to mourn the Death Eater. Still, the pronouncement had the desired effect. Dahlia Lestrange's eyes welled, and she nodded vigorously as she said quietly,

"How wondrous that is to hear, My Lord. Thank you very kindly."

"My Lord," Bellatrix said carefully, "Narcissa and Lucius and Dahlia were telling me that there is a wizard with an interest in Dahlia. And in taking care of Rosemary. But, of course, neither of them would proceed at all without your permission."

"And who is this mysterious wizard?" Voldemort asked. He watched as Dahlia pinched her lips, but Narcissa Malfoy said enthusiastically,

"It's Lucius' cousin Maximus, My Lord. He inherited the smaller Malfoy estate in Cornwall."

"Yes. I know who he is." Voldemort narrowed his eyes at Dahlia, who was staring down at Rosemary, and he said firmly, "If Madam Lestrange ever feels compelled to remarry, she need only ask me, and the request shall be granted. My Lady, may I have a moment?"

He stepped away as the other witches, including little Rosemary, dipped once more. Bellatrix followed him, and he led her from the parlour into the narrow corridor. He tipped his head at her and said,

"Dahlia Lestrange is still madly in love with Rabastan."

"He's been dead for more than three years," Bellatrix hissed. "She's so lonely. She needs to find happiness again."

"She won't find it with Maximus Malfoy. And I won't play matchmaker with a gaggle of witches. Don't allow your sister to drag you into such maudlin nonsense."

"As you command, Master." There was no snark or bite in her tone then, and he knew she was being genuinely submissive. She sipped at her glass of milk as the hired strings began playing singalong carols, and she said gently, "You were such a natural with little Rosemary."

"Don't do that," he sighed, and when Bellatrix looked confused, he reminded her, "This has been settled between us for _years_ , Bellatrix; you know -"

"I did something for which I'm afraid you might actually murder me, and that's why I'm telling you about it at a public Christmas party," Bellatrix Vanished the glass in her hand then, and Voldemort pushed into her mind with Legilimency. He felt her Occlumency defences fly up at once, and he took a half step closer to her as he whispered,

"What have you done, Bellatrix?"

"Skele-Gro has been a commercial success for hundreds of years," she said, averting her eyes. "Successfully growing back Vanished bones."

Voldemort dropped his gin and tonic, ignoring the way the drink spilled on the carpet and the glass rolled away. He pushed Bellatrix's shoulders against the dark wooden wall and demanded again,

"What have you done?"

"Just a few alterations to the formula," she said quietly, turning her face back to him, "and it'll grow back organs, too. Organs like -"

"You didn't." He shook his head vigorously and shoved her harder than ever against the wall. He felt rage toward her then, like he wanted to snatch the silk rose from her curls, like he wanted to slap her, to hurt her. But he just snarled once more, "We agreed years ago about the matter, Bella."

"I'm not pregnant," she said, a lone tear worming its way from her eye. "Not yet, anyway. I shouldn't have tried to trick you. I was wrong. I... I don't know why I... it just felt like it was time, and... I don't know. I'm sorry. I'm very sorry."

"Go say goodbye to everyone, Bellatrix." Voldemort took a step back from her, feeling sudden disgust roll off of him. "Then go spend the night in the suite at Malfoy Manor. If I see you at Archer's Edge tonight, I can't guarantee your safety."

He Disapparated from where he stood, coming to in his own bedroom in the Lake District. She'd have to explain away his sudden disappearance from the party, but that was too bad for her. Voldemort found himself rifling through her dressing boudoir, tossing aside perfume bottles and tubes of lipstick until he found the modified jug of Skele-Gro hiding in the back of a deep drawer. He hurled it at the wall, watching as the porcelain bottle shattered and the potion splattered everywhere.

She'd tricked him. Perhaps he'd been wrong to Vanish her uterus in the first place, but that was of no consequence. She'd tricked him. She'd intended on getting pregnant. She'd been drinking milk tonight just in case. Everything was still in flux; the path of their immortality was beyond uncertain. And she'd tricked him.

Voldemort whipped his wand roughly at her boudoir, sending the dressing-table flying across the room. The mirrors on it shattered and the wooden legs splintered. He picked up the glass bottles of perfume and tossed them one by one at the stone wall. One of them smelled just like her, like roses, and he snarled with rage as he ripped off his tuxedo cloak.

A half hour later he was lying in their bed, staring at the ceiling and high off his mind on Dragon's Breath. Usually he limited himself to three solid inhales, and that was on the extraordinarily rare occasion that he partook at all. Tonight he'd heated and breathed the stuff until he couldn't hold the pipe anymore. It lay on the blankets beside him, and somewhere in the back recesses of his hazy mind, he could feel Bellatrix reaching out to him.

 _I felt empty. I'm not even sure that I actually wanted a child; I just wanted my body back. If I'm never going to age, at least I can have all my organs. That's what I thought_.

"You're a damned fucking liar, Bellatrix," Voldemort murmured at the ceiling. "Deceitful little wench."

 _May I please come home_? He felt her think, and for a moment, he contemplated telling her that he'd kill her if she did show up. But he didn't get the chance. He drifted off to sleep, or somewhere just on the edge of sleep. He could swear that a few minutes later, he heard her voice gently incanting repairing charms. He could swear that someone was pulling off his shoes and placing a blanket atop him and rubbing his head with a cool cloth. But perhaps he just imagined it.

Perhaps he just imagined the feel of her lips on his, the way she whispered that she was sorry. It didn't matter, he reckoned. He'd find out in the morning.

* * *

 _Archer's Edge_

 _21 December 1975_

 _"Bellatrix?"_

 _"Hush..."_

 _He stepped into the library and found her with one finger up to her lips, their child cradled in her arms in the cream crochet blanket that Dahlia Lestrange had sent them. Voldemort curled up half his mouth as he stepped quietly into the room, extending his arms. Bellatrix passed little Lyra over to him, and he brought her up against his chest and studied her face._

 _When her eyes were open, they were the deepest brown, just like both her parents. Atop her head were wispy black curls. Her skin was pale as milk. She was a beautiful creature. Voldemort had thought so since the day she'd been born, when he'd first been handed what seemed like an impossibly fragile infant. She was nearly four months old now, but his arms were still careful as he held her._

 _"She smells so clean," he whispered, and Bellatrix chuckled softly._

 _"Well, that's because she had a bath after soiling herself in rather dramatic fashion."_

 _He tried not to laugh, for he didn't want to shake Lyra awake. He raised his gaze to Bellatrix and saw the deep bags beneath her eyes, the way she'd halfheartedly yanked her hair back, and he said gently,_

 _"You seem tired. Go lie down for a few hours; I promise not to drop her."_

 _Bellatrix crossed her arms over her chest and hesitated. "You don't mind if I go relax a bit?"_

 _"Bella. I'm her father. You're her very devoted, very overworked mother. Please go sleep a bit, eh?"_

 _She finally nodded and planted a soft kiss on Lyra's forehead. Then she leaned up and kissed Voldemort's lips, and as she made her way down the corridor to the bedroom tower, Voldemort said quietly to the sleeping Lyra,_

 _"Your mother is very talented with a great many things, but knowing when to rest has never been one of them. Now, let's see if you'll stay sleeping if your father sits in a chair, hmm?"_

Voldemort blinked his eyes awake and felt like his head weighed a thousand pounds.

"Lyra," he whispered, but there was no response at all. He turned his face to see the blank spot in the bed beside him, the place where Bellatrix was meant to be. He felt incredibly thirsty all of a sudden, and when he reached for the table beside him, he was quite pleased to find a tall glass of water waiting. He swigged down the entire glass in three gulps, still feeling thirsty. He looked down and saw that his tuxedo robes were gone, replaced by pyjama trousers. He was atop the bed, with a spare quilt carefully placed over him.

So she had come home, then. She'd come home and found him lost to Dragon's Breath, and she'd made him comfortable and put water beside him. That made Voldemort's eyes burn a little, in spite of how angry he still was with her. Then he noticed something else on the bedside table - his journal and his quill. The book had flushed black, and when he picked it up and opened it, Bellatrix's writing was on the inside.

 _I can't test for pregnancy for another eight days, My Lord. Of course, if the test is positive and you wish it, I will gladly take a Termination Potion._

Voldemort scowled at the page and snatched the quill between his fingers. Suddenly he could smell the soap on the baby from his dream, even though the child hadn't been real. Suddenly he was overtaken by the vision of Bellatrix cradling the child, looking more beautiful than ever. But he wrote back,

 _You should not have deceived me, Bellatrix. If I was wrong to Vanish your womb, then I am sorry for that. But to make love to me and know that you might..._

He trailed off then, feeling an insistent and unpleasant thud in his head. He swallowed hard and finally scribbled,

 _How are you meant to birth a mortal child, Bellatrix, when you are frozen in time and my soul is split so many ways? Will you make your daughter commit murder so that she can have Horcruxes? Will you outlive her? What, precisely, is your plan?_

 _Daughter_ , Bellatrix wrote back simply, and Voldemort knew at once that she'd shared his dream. _Lyra_.

He shut the book, feeling more overwhelmed than he could remember feeling in a great long while. He rose from the bed on shaking legs and made his way to the bathroom. He took a quick shower, during which he considered that perhaps the child of the Dark Lord and Bellatrix Black could make a Horcrux with some ease. Bellatrix would always look young, but they could work around that, at least. They could use potions. They could use spells.

Then he shaved his face and determined he was a complete fool to even be contemplating a single scrap of this nonsense. Lord Voldemort needed no heir, after all, and Bellatrix was not meant to sit at home with a child.

But it had been her to deceive him. It had been her who seemed to have changed her mind in the last few years about motherhood. She was the one who had been drinking milk at the Christmas party so that any potential child wouldn't be exposed to alcohol. She wanted this. She wanted his child.

Eight days.

He could make it eight days, he promised himself. He would bring Bellatrix back home and go about business as usual. There would be diplomatic cables to be sent. There would be meetings about the new openings in the Auror Office and how to fill them. There would be a Christmas greeting to be recorded and sent over the Wireless to the wizarding population. There were things to keep his mind busy, he thought, until he could know at last whether Bellatrix's deceit had swallowed him completely.

* * *

 _Archer's Edge_

 _29 December 1975_

"So I didn't imagine it," Bellatrix murmured, pacing anxiously as the test processed in the bathroom. "You saw her, too. A little girl called Lyra."

"Let's not get ahead of anything, Bella," Voldemort said, looking pale and a little queasy as he reminded her, "We've shared dreams before that had no basis whatsoever in reality."

Bellatrix stopped her feet and stepped up to where he sat on the trunk at the bottom of the bed. She put her shaking hands on his shoulders and shrugged.

"It won't be positive. It'll be negative. I can just tell."

"Only three more minutes until you know, so probably no use in speculating," Voldemort mumbled. Bellatrix squeezed his shoulders and said for what must have been the twentieth time, "I know it isn't what you want. I know I was wrong. If it is positive, I'll take a potion and it'll all -"

"Stop, Bella. Please." His voice was a broken little whisper then, and he finally shook his head and raised his eyes to her. "For seven years you and I have been lovers. Married five and a half years. Regardless of who we are... who I am... is the worst thing in the world to contemplate a child?"

"I didn't think it was," Bellatrix admitted, her eyes searing with tears. "And that's why I deceived you. And for that, bear, I'm still very sorry."

She rarely broke out her nickname for him, but it felt right just now. They'd spent the last week getting a Christmas portrait taken for the newspaper, issuing holiday greetings, writing letters to Italy and Spain and Portugal reassuring them that there was no real situation with France. They'd been busy. But at night, she'd curled up against him and apologised over and over, and he'd just said there was nothing to really apologise for. Now they were at an impasse, with a pregnancy testing potion sitting in the bathroom.

She started to pace again, picking at the velvet on her skirts as she guessed, "It'll be white. Milky white negative, just like the last time we tested for this. And then I'll take a long-acting contraceptive potion, or you can Vanish my -"

"Bellatrix."

She raised her eyes to see Voldemort staring at her with a very serious look. He rose from where he sat and reminded her,

"What we did in Spain? We did that for a reason. Whatever colour that test is, it's what it's meant to be, hmm? It's ready now. Let's go look."

She gripped his hand tightly, letting him lead her into the bathroom. Her legs resisted a little, and she squeezed her eyes shut. She heard a shaking gasp, felt his fingers squeeze round hers, and when she opened her eyes, she saw the little glass on the ledge above the sink. It was inky black. Positive.

Bellatrix nearly collapsed then, her breath giving out entirely as she got dizzy and the room whirled like a top. Voldemort's arms were around her then, holding her close and whispering that he loved her as his lips touched hers.

She kissed him back, feeling the damp of his entirely unexpected tears where his cheek pressed against hers. His lips shook like mad as he kissed her again, and then he was laughing quietly, and suddenly Bellatrix thought everything just might turn out all right.

"Lyra," she whispered. "If it's a girl, she'll be called Lyra."

"Yes." Voldemort nodded vigorously and touched his forehead to Bellatrix's. He grinned then, something he didn't do very often, and he rubbed at her shoulders as he assured her, "It'll be fine. More than fine. It'll be beautiful. I adore you, little thing, more than you could ever... ever understand."

He kissed her again then, more confidently this time, and Bellatrix thought that she did understand, at least a little.


	6. Chapter 6

Archer's Edge

19 January 1976

Bellatrix wiped her lips with a damp cloth, holding the edge of the sink as she tried to steady herself. It was only four weeks after she'd become pregnant, and already she was horrifically, violently nauseated. She'd vomited six times today and ten the day before. She'd never complain about such a thing to a witch like Narcissa, of course, but Voldemort had insisted that she needed to take Pleasant Pregnancy Potion. He'd slipped out today; he'd gone to Diagon Alley with Bellatrix's ugly Transfiguration ring around his pinky finger.

Now she heard his footsteps ascending the winding stairs into the bedroom, and she tried not to be sick again. Voldemort appeared in the threshold of the bathroom and informed her crisply,

"I got ten bottles. The witch in the store said to drink one small bottle each month, so..."

"Thank you," Bellatrix murmured, the very act of speaking making her feel queasy again. Voldemort held out a small cardboard box, which Bellatrix happily accepted. She read the label, feeling ill just from focusing her eyes on the words.

PLEASANT PREGNANCY POTION - Dose one small bottle monthly for the duration of the pregnancy. No harm to mother or child! Some witches experience ordinary, tolerable symptoms during pregnancy. But for those who experience extreme nausea and vomiting, issues with blood pressure or blood sugars, and other complications of pregnancy, PLEASANT PREGNANCY POTION is the solution! Expect drowsiness immediately upon dosing and avoid falls for twenty-four hours. If symptoms persist, contact your Midwitch or Obstestric Healer immediately. Discontinue use if symptoms persist or worsen.

Bellatrix opened the little cardboard box and pulled out the small brown glass bottle. She unscrewed the lid and tipped it back, surprised by the cloyingly sweet flavour of the thick syrup. She struggled to get it down without vomiting it straight back up again, and she was glad when Voldemort took the box and bottle away and Vanished them. He filled a glass with water from the sink, and Bellatrix slowly sipped it, feeling her nausea start to fade.

"You need to lie down," he insisted. "Don't want you to fall."

He guided her carefully toward the bed then, and Bellatrix was glad she hadn't bothered changing out of her nightgown yet today. She let Voldemort pull the blankets up around her and blinked through the heavy fatigue that came over her at once. She watched him pull a chair up beside her, and his lips curled up a little as he took her hand.

"It was strange, you know," he told her. "Walking among the throng as though I was nobody. Not a single person called me 'My Lord.' Nobody bowed to me. It was bizarre."

Bellatrix smirked. "Were they gossiping about you?"

He looked a little serious then as he said, "They were calling me 'You-Know-Who' and 'The Dark Lord' in the only conversation I heard. One of the people, I think, was the Snape boy's mother. She looked just like him and was telling another witch that her boy Severus wanted to serve me."

"What the other witch say?" Bellatrix asked, and he took her hand as he said quietly,

"That it would be an unspeakable honour to serve the Dark Lord directly."

Bellatrix nodded. "They adore you. They all do."

"Not everyone, as you know perfectly well." Voldemort licked his bottom lip and admitted, "It will get more difficult to hide this as it progresses. We'll need to keep you feeling well so that you can make public appearances whenever possible. When you start to show, you'll need to wear clothing that accommodates it, and then for the last few months, we'll just have to hide you away."

"And what about Lyra?" Bellatrix asked. She wasn't sure why she always referred to the baby as a girl, and with a specific name, too. If it was a boy, they'd said, his name would be Leo. But Bellatrix seemed very sure it would be a girl. Lyra Black.

"When the child is born, you'll need to hand over most of the care to the House-Elves," Voldemort said, "and you won't ever be able to speak of them in public."

Bellatrix frowned deeply. "My Lord, I don't want our child to be a secret."

"I don't want our child to be murdered," Voldemort snapped, and Bellatrix was so shocked by his tone that she pulled her hand back. His features softened, and he carefully took her hand again as he whispered, "I'm sorry. It frightens me, and I don't much like being frightened."

"It frightens me, too," Bellatrix admitted, "but I don't want our child to be a secret."

"We'll discuss it later," Voldemort said, patting her hand gently. "For now, just rest."

Bellatrix wanted to argue, but she couldn't. She was too sleepy. At least, she considered, she didn't feel like throwing her guts up anymore.

* * *

Black Family Residence, London

20 March 1976

"I'm sure the two of you are curious as to why I've come," Voldemort said, pacing in the dining-room where Bellatrix had eaten her morning cereal as a child. Cygnus Black III and Druella stared up at him wordlessly from their chairs. Voldemort cleared his throat and said carefully, "What I am about to reveal to you is strictly confidential. You may share this information with absolutely no one. Not Narcissa, not your friends. No one. Am I very clearly understood?"

"Yes, My Lord. Of course." Druella knitted her hands nervously on the table, and Voldemort could tell that Cygnus was afraid they were going to learn their eldest daughter had died. Voldemort had only come here at Bellatrix's insistence. She wouldn't be able to hide it from her parents, she'd said. Her mother knew that Bellatrix never gained weight, but her cheeks had filled out just a little and she couldn't wear narrow-waisted robes anymore. She'd said something about a 'glow,' which Voldemort did not understand in the least, but Bellatrix had insisted her mother would know. Besides, she'd said, they were past the twelve-week mark now, and the odds of miscarriage had gone down significantly. So Voldemort had come, and Bellatrix had stayed home, because he hadn't wanted to turn this into some sentimental love-fest with his in-laws.

"Bellatrix is expecting," he said clinically. "She's twelve weeks along."

Druella clapped her hands to her mouth and let out a startled, gleeful sound, and Cygnus Black's eyes welled at once as he grinned.

"Oh, My Lord," Cygnus simpered. "Such wonderful news. Such marvelous... oh. Merlin's beard."

"She's twelve weeks along?" Druella asked, and Voldemort knew it was because of Narcissa's many miscarriages. He nodded but reminded them,

"This information is entirely private."

"Of course," Druella nodded. "May we see her soon? To speak with her?"

"She'd like you at Archer's Edge next Thursday for dinner," Voldemort said primly. "She's feeling fine now; she was ill at first, but the potion has helped."

"Oh, it's good when they're sick; less chance of a miscarriage," Druella said dismissively. "Still, if the potion's making things more tolerable, then -"

"I do not much care to further discuss details, Madam," Voldemort said sharply, and his mother-in-law's face went scarlet as she said with embarrassment,

"No, of course not. I apologise, My Lord."

"Thursday next, then," Cygnus said happily. "Dinner. Ah, but we will be so looking forward to it, won't we, Druella?"

"Very much so. Thank you, My Lord, for coming to tell us." Druella rose from her chair along with Cygnus. She dipped into a deep curtsy and hesitated as she asked carefully, "Would you be so good as to convey our profound happiness to Bellatrix, My Lord?"

"With pleasure," Voldemort nodded. "Until next Thursday, then. Cygnus, when you come, bring a thorough write-up about the financials since we've pulled out of France entirely, will you?"

"Of course, Master." Cygnus bowed to his son-in-law, and without another word, Voldemort strode quickly from the dining-room and Disapparated.

* * *

Archer's Edge

19 May 1976

"And Augustus Rookwood would like to know if you'll be attending the Quidditch League Cup final match. Two weeks from now in Yorkshire, between Tutshill and Puddlemere United."

Bellatrix sat opposite Voldemort in his office, holding out a letter from Rookwood, who now headed up the Department of Magical Games and Sports.

"Yes, I think it would be wise to attend," Voldemort nodded. He took the letter and frowned. "He wants to know if you'll be in attendance."

Bellatrix pursed her lips and glanced down. She was wearing strategically made robes these days, with high waistlines and lots of baggy, extra material. Still, the gentle swell of her abdomen was visible when she looked in a mirror. Twenty-one weeks into the pregnancy, she could feel her little child squirming inside her like a goldfish in a bowl. The aches and pains, and certainly the nausea, were alleviated by the potion she took each month. Her breasts and hips had changed, but Voldemort hadn't seemed to mind. He'd told her that he thought she was more beautiful now than ever. Just the night before, he'd stood behind her in the shower, holding the swell of her belly and kissing her neck and telling her she was lovely.

But it was obvious now. It was getting more obvious by the day. Bellatrix frowned and said reluctantly,

"Someone will definitely notice."

"Right. I'll go alone, then. You can tell Rookwood that it'll just be me." Voldemort drummed his fingers on his desk and said carefully, "Narcissa noticed the other day. How did she take it?"

"Better than I'd feared, My Lord," Bellatrix nodded. "Much better. I told her that someday she'll have her own. She agreed. I do think she believes that she will have a child someday. I hope she can."

"Mmm-hmm." Voldemort did not seem terribly interested in exploring that topic any further. He glanced at the clock and said, "Healer Harvey should be here any moment."

Bellatrix grinned and scratched at her curls. "Are you sure you want to know? They'll tell you the moment the baby's born if it's a boy or a girl, you know."

"You're just afraid you've been using the wrong name," Voldemort teased her. "Yes, I want to know, because I want a full examination. I want to hear a Healer tell me that my wife and my child are perfectly fine. What's the matter with that?"

Before Bellatrix could answer, Bakky the House-Elf knocked on the office door and croaked,

"My Lord. My Lady. Healer Harvey is come from St Mungo's Hospital."

"Show him in," Voldemort nodded. Bellatrix rose from her chair to great the Healer, and she saw the way Voldemort's eyes went straight to her belly. He thought she looked elegant, she could tell, in her dark green brocade gown with the little curve of her abdomen. She wondered if he'd still think she was elegant in four months' time when she'd be a waddling mess.

"My Lord! My Lady. Good day to you both." Healer Harvey came walking into the office, looking quite comfortable. That was because he'd been here monthly, Bellatrix knew. He'd become very accustomed to appointments here. After perfunctory greetings and questions about how Bellatrix was feeling, Voldemort wandlessly shut the office door, and Healer Harvey began pulling supplies from his Expanded medical bag.

First he pulled out a wood-and-leather examination table, which he unfolded in the open part of the office. He pulled out another folding table, upon which he started laying Magical scanners and cuffs and other instruments. Bellatrix shamelessly stripped off her outer robes, flashing Voldemort a little smile as she passed them to him. She climbed with his help up onto the table, lying on her back in her bra and knickers and feeling very glad that she didn't need to be self-conscious around Voldemort.

"You're still taking the potion for your symptoms?" Healer Harvey asked gently, and Voldemort snapped,

"I won't have her vomiting ten times a day like she was at only four weeks."

"No, of course not, Master," said Healer Harvey. "It's not a problem; I was merely inquiring. Forgive me."

Bellatrix rolled her eyes a little and nodded. "I took the latest dose last night, Healer Harvey. I started feeling motion about three weeks ago."

"Fantastic." Healer Harvey put a cuff around her arm and a little scanner on her fingertip. He pressed a self-adhering strip of cloth to the top side of her bare abdomen, and Bellatrix held the sides of her belly as Healer Harvey worked. She flashed Voldemort a shy little smile, and in his eyes she saw such powerful adoration that she almost cried. Healer Harvey set up a little machine on the folding table, a sort of print-out device that would amalgamate the results of his tests and spit out a summary in cleanly typed letters.

Bellatrix leaned back and shut her eyes, listening to the Magically-enhanced sound of the baby's heartbeat from the strip on her abdomen. She felt a tear worm its way unbidden from her eye at that, and she could feel the way Voldemort was thinking that the heartbeat was strong and steady and healthy. She felt him slip his fingers into hers, and when she looked up to where he stood beside the table, she couldn't help smiling.

"Everything seems exceedingly healthy, My Lady," Healer Harvey said proudly. "The heartbeat is perfect, and your growth is ideal. Now... let's get this read-out here."

He pulled on his reading glasses and tore the piece of parchment from his machine. He scanned his eyes down the paper and grinned as he read aloud,

"Placental and amniotic health: Excellent. Fetal heart and organ health: Excellent. Maternal heart and organ health: Excellent. Fetal size: Ideal. Sex of fetus: Female."

"Female." Voldemort's breath shook a little, and he squeezed at Bellatrix's hand. She laughed aloud and found his eyes through the blur of her tears, nodding vigorously as she thought right at him,

Lyra.

* * *

Archer's Edge

10 August, 1976

She was almost criminally beautiful like this.

He'd thought that before, he knew. He'd thought it the night of her parents' Christmas party in 1968, when she'd just come of age and was so tempting in her black gown that he'd kissed her. He'd never kissed any woman before then or since, and it had been the most satisfying feeling in the world to put his lips against hers.

He'd thought it at various weddings and balls, and in grey rainy morning light when she'd still been asleep. He'd thought it when she'd been beside him in bed, or atop him, or beneath him. She was always beautiful, sometimes more than usual, but right now she was so beautiful that Voldemort's chest ached.

She'd given up entirely on concealing her pregnancy. Everyone knew now; the secret had leeched out like ink spilled on parchment. So today, as she paced in the sunroom above the library with a book in her hand, she wore a high-waisted black dress in flowing linen to fight the heat. The huge swell of her belly complemented her still-thin arms and face, making her look the picture of slickly-executed motherhood. She pressed one hand against the small of her back as she read, her hair slung over her shoulder in a thick braid. Finally she stopped walking, shut her book, and teased him,

"Are you going to stand there all day staring?"

"Probably," he admitted. He felt a sudden pull of want for her then. She'd assured him the night before in bed that it was more than safe, even this far along in the pregnancy, and he'd gently rocked into her from behind. He'd gone much, much longer than nine months without sex before, of course. But somehow she was so alluring like this, swollen with his child and resplendent with the happiness this entire affair had brought her.

"I love you," she said, and he realised she'd been looking straight at his thoughts. He swallowed hard and nodded, knowing his voice would crack if he tried to speak just now. He walked across the sunroom to her and stood behind her, pulling her back against him and cradling her belly in his hands. He shut his eyes and peered forth into the ether with Legilimency. Lyra had no discernible thoughts or consciousness yet, but he could feel her presence just the same as any other person's. She was there, alive, her heartbeat thudding between Voldemort's ears. He bent to touch his lips to Bellatrix's exposed neck and whispered,

"I love the both of you. You know that, don't you?"

"Yes." She turned her head and smiled up at him, and for a moment everything was so perfect that Voldemort's eyes seared with emotion.

Then the bliss was interrupted by the rapping of a beak on the window, and Voldemort scowled as he left Bellatrix to go open the glass. An owl perched on the stone wall, looking haggard and worn, and Voldemort realised at once that it had come a long way. He took the letter that was tied to its foot and handed it over to Bellatrix, noting,

"It's addressed to you."

She frowned and set her book down, taking the letter and curiously studying the writing on the outside. She broke the wax seal and unfolded the letter, and she read aloud,

"Dear Bellatrix, I know you and I have not spoken in years, but news of your pregnancy has reached me here on the Continent. Regardless of our philosophical differences, you are my niece, and I still value your life and that of your child. I write to warn you that a force of French wizards and witches will be arriving at Malfoy Manor in Wiltshire, at six in the evening of the tenth of August. Stay away, Bellatrix, and flee that life while you still can. Come to France. Regards from your uncle, Alphard Black."

Bellatrix's eyes went wide with terror, and her hand shook on the parchment as she said,

"Six o'clock. That's only three hours from now. We need to go."

"No. I need to go," Voldemort corrected her, dashing down the winding staircase. "You need to stay. I need to Summon everyone immediately, but I'll need to be at Malfoy Manor for that."

"My Lord!" Bellatrix cried breathlessly, trotting too quickly down the stairs behind him. "Please. Let me come and fight. You'll need every wand you can -"

"Absolutely not, Bellatrix." Voldemort felt a searing red anger in his mind, and he wasn't sure if it was hers or his. It didn't matter. He kept walking down the corridor, and Bellatrix ambled as quickly as her belly would let her behind him. She called out,

"Please, My Lord! I can't just stay here and -"

"Bellatrix!" He whirled around and glared at her, gesturing up and down her body. "This... this exact situation... this is why we spent years having decided that you would not have a child. Because you wouldn't be able to stay away from battle, and because you simply can not fight in this condition."

"My magic is still powerful!" Bellatrix insisted in an indignant voice, and Voldemort rushed up to her, seizing her shoulders in his hands.

"You have a Horcrux! Lyra does not. They could rip you to shreds; they could kill her in an instant. Do you not understand that, Bellatrix? Do not be a child now of all times. You will stay here and protect our daughter. That is an order from your lord and master. Question me and test my wrath."

Bellatrix shook her head, her eyes welling. "I won't question you."

He nodded and huffed out a thick breath. "I love you both."

He touched at her stomach and leaned down to plant a firm kiss on her lips, and he whispered,

"You'll feel your Mark burn with all the others'. Ignore it and stay here. You'll be here when I come home, won't you?"

"Yes, My Lord," Bellatrix nodded, and without another word, Voldemort strode toward the front door of Archer's Edge, Disapparating along the way.

* * *

Archer's Edge

10 August 1976

Bellatrix paced like a rat in a cage, feeling thuds of pain and rage in her mental link with Lord Voldemort. He had his Occlumency shields up, but they were nothing against the strength of the bond. Bellatrix could feel when he threw a Cruciatus Curse; the familiar buzz from casting came over her when he did it. She finally stopped and leaned heavily against the wall, cradling her belly and murmuring,

"It's fine, Lyra. Your papa's fine. Everything's fine."

She had to tell herself that, because the baby was tossing and turning like a restless ocean inside of her. But she could tell that everything was not fine. Very much the opposite. She felt a spell drive straight into Voldemort's chest and knew that he'd been so occupied in one duel that another person had managed to attack him. That wasn't good, Bellatrix thought. They must be outnumbered.

For almost an hour, she forced herself to pace, to mutter to her unborn child that everything was fine. But it wasn't fine. It got worse; she could feel that Voldemort was bleeding. Augustus Rookwood was dead; she felt that realisation go through his mind. Finally, unable to keep herself from doing so, Bellatrix touched at her serpent necklace and pulled out her wand.

"I'm sorry, Lyra," she said helplessly. "I have to go to your papa now, because without him, you and I are nothing."

She Disapparated, coming to outside Malfoy Manor and wishing at once that she had stayed in the Lake District.

Spells were flying in every direction. Red Cruciatus Curses, blue Stunning Spells, green Killing Curses. White light and silver, purple sparks and orange flares. On the British side, she saw Lucius and Abraxas Malfoy, Avery, some Rosiers, and at least a dozen others. Augustus Rookwood's body and a few others were crumpled on the ground. There were at least twenty French witches and wizards that Bellatrix did not recognise, but at the front of the pack, she could plainly see Adelise Tessier locked in battle with Voldemort himself.

"Bella, go home! Now!" bellowed Voldemort from where he stood, and almost immediately, he seemed to realise that had been a serious mistake. Adelise Tessier turned her attention away from Voldemort and grinned like a madwoman across the gardens to where Bellatrix stood. Both witches raised their wands, and Bellatrix could see Adelise Tessier start to mouth the incantation for the Killing Curse.

"NO!"

Voldemort Disapparated from where he'd been standing and reappeared directly in front of Bellatrix. Adelise Tessier's Killing Curse rocketed through the air, intended for Bellatrix or her baby or both. Instead it smacked straight into Lord Voldemort, crackling into sparks around him and sending him crumpling to the ground.

Somehow, Bellatrix had the instinct to keep her wand aimed at Adelise Tessier and shriek, "AVADA KEDAVRA!"

The French Minister seemed so shocked by what had happened, by the way that Voldemort had absorbed the Killing Curse meant for his wife, that she was wholly unable to react in any way to Bellatrix's own curse. The jade green light had always made Bellatrix feel a rush of pleasure. Now it made her feel empty as it sapped Tessier's life at once and made her topple over onto one of the Malfoys' rose bushes.

Bellatrix fell to her knees and sobbed like a child, shaking Voldemort's shoulders roughly and whining desperately,

"Wake up. Please. Please wake up. My Lord, wake up." She bent to kiss his cheek, her tears dribbling onto the skin that had somehow already gone cold. He didn't stir.

"My Lady! No!"

Bellatrix looked up at the sound of Lucius Malfoy's voice in the distance. A curse rocketed by her but missed the French wizard it was intended for. The French wizard raised his wand, and Bellatrix flew to her feet, trying to summon the energy to cast another Killing Curse. Inside her belly, she felt Lyra squirm like mad, and then she saw the bearded French wizard slash his wand through the air. A bluish-purple light whipped at her like a bolt of lightning, slashing straight across her and sending her collapsing to the ground. She landed hard on her back beside Voldemort, and just before everything went black and cold, she realised they'd found their end. All three of them were dead now.

* * *

"My Lady? My Lady, if you can hear me, please try to open your eyes."

Bellatrix blinked, but nothing happened.

"Bella?" That was Narcissa's voice, she realised at once. Somehow Bellatrix managed open her eyes, and through the blinding light, she asked the first question that came into her head.

"Are they dead?"

"The Dark Lord and the baby? No, love, they're fine. You're alive. All three of you! You're here in St Mungo's, in the Dark Lord's personal ward." Narcissa's voice was warm and kind, and Bellatrix sat up slowly at the sound of the good news. Her belly felt oddly small, and when she glanced down and saw a relatively flat abdomen, she gasped.

"Where is she?" Bellatrix demanded. "Where is Lyra?"

"Lyra," Narcissa repeated, and finally Bellatrix could focus on her sister's tired face. Narcissa took Bellatrix's hand and said, "Lucius got you and the Dark Lord into the Manor at once; we already had Healers there."

"We delivered her by section in the immediate aftermath of the battle, My Lady," said Healer Harvey from Bellatrix's left. "She was just a little small, a little early, but she is doing wonderfully. She is healthy and strong, and she hardly ever cries."

"Mummy and I have been here day and night, Bella," Narcissa assured her. "We've been singing to her, reading her little stories. She's had to drink formula milk, of course, but she's doing just fine. Would you like to see her?"

"Yes!" Bellatrix croaked, her voice mealy and distant in her own mouth. "Cissy, go get her. Go fetch my Lyra. Please."

"Of course." Narcissa flew up from her chair and dashed off, and Bellatrix turned her head to ask Healer Harvey where the Dark Lord was. But then she saw him, lying just across from her in a bed of his own. He was still and motionless, and Bellatrix's eyes watered as she asked,

"Will he wake?"

"I do believe so, My Lady," nodded Healer Harvey determinedly. "It's been two weeks, but his vital signs and strong and stable. He absorbed a Killing Curse with only a Magical coma to show for it. I do think he will wake."

Bellatrix wondered distantly if he needed one of his Horcruxes to wake. But, she thought, now probably was not the best time to be discussing Horcruxes. She thought straight toward him,

Are you there, My Lord?

Bella. His thought came back sure and clear. Bella… is she alive?

Yes, Bellatrix thought toward him. Please wake up.

I am trying, he promised in his head. Bellatrix turned to Healer Harvey, her lips curling up a little as she told him,

"I think he will wake."

"Here she is!" Narcissa's voice was gentler now, and Bellatrix could hardly breathe as her sister walked toward her with a little bundle in her arms. It was a baby, a tiny baby swaddled tightly in a soft white cotton blanket. Narcissa placed the bundle into Bellatrix's arms carefully, and Bellatrix gasped.

Her eyes were dark like both her parents'. Her little head was covered with a tiny knitted cap, but when Bellatrix removed it, she saw wispy black curls. Bellatrix pulled the hat back on and watched as the baby shut her eyes, looking drowsy.

"She just ate," Narcissa informed Bellatrix, "so she probably wants to sleep."

"Thank you, Cissy," Bellatrix murmured. She pressed her lips to the baby's head and whispered reverently, "Lyra. My little Lyra. Just wait until your papa sees you. He'll fall in love at once."

"Bellatrix…"

She gasped and raised her eyes to the bed across from hers. Healer Harvey and a few Mediwitches dashed over, speaking quietly to the Dark Lord and encouraging him to speak again or to open his eyes.

"Lyra, let's help him wake," Bellatrix suggested. She held the baby close and shut her eyes, breathing in the clean smell of Lyra's hair and skin. She mentally bottled up the love she was feeling and sent it straight toward Voldemort.

"Bella… Lyra…"

"That's it, Master. Can you sit up? Slowly now…" Healer Harvey was helping Voldemort sit, and Bellatrix was shocked by his appearance. He was entirely bald; his skin was milky white. His eyes were a dark red, almost scarlet, but as he stared at Bellatrix, she saw love in his gaze. Someone handed him his glasses, but he pushed them aside and mumbled that he did not need them.

Then he stood. He flung his legs over the edge of the bed, sending looks of complete shock over the faces of Healer Harvey and the Mediwitches. Narcissa gasped and rose, seeming to know that she ought to curtsy and then step away quickly. Voldemort stalked toward Bellatrix's bed, his long white patient's robe billowing around him. Suddenly he was beside the bed, seizing Bellatrix's hand in his and staring in awe down at Lyra.

"May I hold her, please?" he whispered, his voice hoarse. Bellatrix gave him a meaningful look and passed the bundle up to him as she said,

"You are the great Lord Voldemort, and you may do whatever you damned well please."

He nodded, taking Lyra in his arms and gasping audibly. His dark crimson eyes welled immediately, but he used a free knuckle to brush a tear away before it could fall.

"Everyone out," he barked over his shoulder. Healer Harvey hesitated for a moment, but seemed to realise now was not the time to perseverate over medical protocol. He and the Mediwitches and Narcissa left quickly, leaving Bellatrix alone with Voldemort and Lyra.

"Isn't she absolutely beautiful?" Bellatrix asked, and he nodded as he shut his eyes and informed her,

"I was very, very certain I'd lost you both."

"You saved us both," Bellatrix corrected him. "I shouldn't have come to the battle. I was wrong. I only hope that I -"

"None of that matters now," Voldemort snapped down to her. "We are in St Mungo's so obviously the battle turned out the way I'd have hoped. You and Lyra are here. Alive. And I…"

He glanced up to the mirror on the wall, seeming to register his milky skin, his bald head, his thin frame, and his dark red eyes. His throat bobbed, and he said determinedly,

"I absorbed and survived a Killing Curse, which makes the most powerful wizard who's ever lived. That will be the narrative, and the people will worship the terrifying abilities I possess."

He looked down at Lyra again, and he mused,

"Someday I'll teach her to fly, to fly all by herself, and all her little broomstick-riding friends will be very jealous. Someday you'll teach her to bake bread from scratch, and when she brings you a beetle and asks you to torture it, you'll tell her that's a demonstration for a later time."

He swiped another unshed tear from his eye, ripping his gaze to Bellatrix as he said,

"But for now, milk and sleep and stories. We will let her be innocent for as long as she can. Won't be long with parents like us, I reckon. So let's savour it now. I love you, Bella. I love you both."

Bellatrix nodded and sent all her love straight back at him through their link. He put Lyra back into her arms and said as gently as he had ever said anything,

"It could only ever have been you."

THE END -


End file.
